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SCANDINAVIAN  CLASSICS 
VOLUME  X 


COST  A  BERLING'S  SAGA 

BY 
SELMA  LAGERLOF 

PART  I 


THIS  VOLUME  IS  ENDOWED  BY 
MR.  CHARLES  S.  PETERSON 
OF  CHICAGO 


GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

__ 

BY 

SELMA  LAGERLOF 

A 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  SWEDISH 
BY   LILLIE  TUDEER 

PART  I 


NEW  YORK 
THE  AMERICAN-SCANDINAVIAN  FOUNDATION 

LONDON:  HUMPHREY  MILFORD 
OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 


Copyright,  I  pi  8,  by  The  ^American-Scandinavian  Foundation 


Updike  •  The  <Merrymount  Tress  •  'Boston  •  U. 


\A\ 


Editorial  Treface 

NO  series  of  SCANDINAVIAN  CLASSICS  would  be 
complete  without  a  romance  representing  the 
genius  of  Selma  Lagerlof.  Two  chief  reasons  have 
influenced  the  Committee  on  Publications  of  the 
American  Scandinavian  Foundation  in  choosing 
Gosta  Berling's  Saga  for  whatever  distinction  may 
accrue  from  its  inclusion  in  the  CLASSICS.  In  the 
first  place,  it  is  the  author's  earliest  work.  If  she 
had  written  no  other,  her  place  in  Swedish  letters 
would  have  been  assured  for  all  time.  In  Gosta  are 
consummated  the  story-telling  aspirations  of  her 
youth  and  a  literary  ambition  which  for  thirty-three 
years  found  no  outlet.  In  the  second  place,  what- 
ever may  be  the  judgment  of  posterity,  Gosta  Ber- 
!ing's$agaym  the  popular  estimate  of  Swedes  to-day, 
is  Selma  LagerloPs  masterpiece.  On  this  point,  to 
be  sure,  the  critics  are  divided.  It  is  justly  held  that 
'The  Emperor  of  Portugallia  is  a  more  skilfully  con- 
structed book,  and  Jerusalem  more  profoundly  in- 
spired, while  other  novels  are  found  to  excel  in 
particular  features.  Gosta  is  in  truth  loosely  put 
together,  and  sometimes  as  prolix  as  Arthurian 
romance,  the  very  prototype  of  this  long  narrative 
of  twelve  vagrant  Swedish  cavaliers.  But  here  per- 


' 


'  7 


vi  EDITORIAL  PREFACE 

sonality  combines  with  art  to  create  a  rhapsodic 
prose  possessing  the  fervor  of  verse  and  a  style  new 
in  world  literature.  Some  paragraphs  one  hesitates 
whether  to  print  as  prose  or  vers  libre.  One  could 
rewrite  in  metrical  form,  for  example,  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  beautiful  Marienne  Sinclaire,in"  The  Ball 
at  Ekeby:" 

Her  presence  gave  inspiration  to  the  speeches 

And  life  to  the  wine. 

She  gave  speed  to  the  violin  bows^ 

And  the  dancing  went  gayer  than  ever 

Over  the  boards  that  she  touched 

With  her  slender  feet. 

She  shone  in  the  tableaux 

And  in  the  acting. 

It  is  a  good  test  of  the  national  character  of  a  story 
when  public  demand,  as  in  the  case  of  Mark 
Twain's  Bull  Frog^  requires  the  author  to  write 
a  second  narrative  to  tell  how  the  first  came  into 
existence.  In  A  Story  of  a  Story ,  one  may  read  of  the 
long,  quiet  years  that  went  into  the  making  of  Gosta; 
how  the  frail  Varmland  girl,  destined  to  renown, 
in  her  pastoral  home  at  Marbacka  listened  to  spin- 
sters and  travelling  fiddlers  reciting  the  mad  old 
days  after  the  Napoleonic  wars,  when  gay  soldiers 
of  fortune,  by  their  pranks  and  romantic  behavior, 
made  the  bright-eyed  maidens  and  pleasure-loving 


EDITORIAL  PREFACE  vii 

gentlemen  of  Varmland  forget  their  poverty;  how 
for  years  she  experimented  silently  with  these  tales, 
put  them  into  verse,  tried  dramatic  form,  and  fail- 
ing to  find  an  audience  for  romantic  prose,  essayed 
in  vain  the  popular  realistic  then  style.  At  last  a 
prize  contest  brought  the  romance  to  the  light  of 
day  in  its  present  form.  The  unfrocked  clergyman, 
Gosta  Berling,  became  chief  and  hero  among  the 
twelve  uncertain  gentlemen  to  whom  the  efficient 
Major's  wife  gave  shelter  under  her  generous  roof 
at  Ekeby. 

Gosta  Berling' s  Saga^  in  the  Swedish  original,  was 
my  introduction  to  the  life  and  temperament  of 
modern  Sweden.  Like  many  another,  after  reading 
it,  I  was  overtaken  by  a  consuming  desire  to  see 
the  children  of  the  people  whom  this  romance  pre- 
sented, a  longing  which  impelled  me,  when  occasion 
offered,  to  visit  Varmland  and  that  Lake  Fryken 
whose  name  the  author  has  changed  and  whose 
shores  she  has  made  immortal.  While  on  my  pil- 
grimage I  sat  for  a  time  in  the  seat  of  the  scornful, 
among  a  group  of  realists  and  disciples  of  Strind- 
berg  in  Copenhagen.  By  them  I  was  told  that  no 
such  people  existed  in  reality  as  those  day-dreamers 
of  the  novel.  But  the  Varmlanders  of  to-day  are  true 
to  their  forebears,  as  I  found  on  a  walking  trip  which 
I  have  described  elsewhere.  I  well  recall,  as  I  drew 


viii  EDITORIAL  PREFACE 

near  the  Lake,  a  group  of  women  carding  flax  by 
the  roadside,  laughing  and  chatting,  a  generous  fam- 
ily that  included  a  grandmother  and  many  grand- 
daughters. As  I  stopped  for  a  moment  to  look  at 
their  task,  one  of  them,  a  sprightly  maid,  seizing 
a  handful  of  chaff,  ran  up  and  administered  it  to 
my  neck.  I  had  scarcely  time  to  dodge  this  assail- 
ant when  I  was  attacked  by  a  sister  with  a  similar 
weapon.  The  older  women  went  on  with  their  work, 
laughing  merrily  at  the  discomfiture  of  the  stranger. 
Such  was  my  introduction  to  the  gay  fellowship  of 
Varmland,as  blithe  to-day,  though  not  so  romantic, 
as  in  the  period,  now  nearly  a  century  ago, described 
in  the  saga. 

As  to  geography,  the  tourist  can  readily  sat- 
isfy himself  by  visiting  and  identifying  most  of  the 
homesteads  and  villages  of  the  story.  Selma  Lager- 
lof  has  rechristened  them,  to  be  sure,  but  fact  and 
fiction  can  be  differentiated  by  the  aid  of  local  guide- 
books or  with  the  help  of  the  map  prefaced  to  the 
present  edition. 

The  excellent  translation  of  Lillie  Tudeer,  first 
published  in  1894,  hitherto  inaccessible  in  Amer- 
ica and  out  of  print  in  England,  is  here  reprinted 
by  permission  of  the  English  publishers,  Chap- 
man &  Hall.  The  text,  however,  has  been  care- 
fully edited  and  a  few  passages  corrected  by  Hanna 


EDITORIAL  PREFACE  ix 

Astrup  Larsen,  the  translator  of  Jacobsen's  Marie 
Grubbe,  published  by  the  Foundation.  Eight  chap- 
ters that  were  silently  omitted  in  the  British  edi- 
tion have  been  restored  in  a  new  translation  by 
Velma  Swanston  Howard,  translator  of  other  works 
of  Selma  Lagerlof  published  by  Doubleday,  Page 
and  Company.  These  sections  are  indicated  in  the 
table  of  contents.  At  the  end  of  the  second  volume 
will  be  found  a  Lagerlof  bibliography  compiled  by 
Vice-Consul  G.  N.  Swan.  It  is  necessarily  incom- 
plete because  of  imperfect  war-time  communica- 
tion, but  will  serve  to  indicate  the  chronology  of 
the  literature  of  romance  of  which  Gosta  Berlings 
Saga  is  but  a  beginning. 

HENRY  GODDARD  LEACH 


Contents 

Part  I 

PAGE 

The  Tastor  3 


The  'Beggar  i 

The  Landscape  33 

Christmas  Sve  39 

The  (Christmas  dinner  57 

Qosta  Her  ling  —  Toet  73 

The  fachucha*  91 

®£»//  at  Ske  by  .  96 

Old  (Carriages  1  24 

Qreat  Hear  of  Qurlita  QHff  144 

The  Auction  at  "Bjorne  164 

The  Toung  Qountess  200 

Qhost  Stories  234 

<S^^  T>ohnas  Story  252 

Mamsell  {Marie*  279 


*  Translated  by  Vclma  Swanston  Howard. 


GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

BY 
SELMA  LAGERLOF 


P»NM 


LilliecronaaF-Lbfdalla 


THE 

LOFVEN  DISTRIC 


VARMLAND 

• — highways 


77}e  'Pastor 


1 


A  HE  pastor  was  mounting  the  pulpit  steps. 
The  bowed  heads  of  the  congregation 
rose — he  was  there,  then,  after  all,  and  there 
would  be  service  that  Sunday,  though  for  many  Sun- 
days there  had  been  none. 

How  tall  and  slight  and  how  strikingly  beauti- 
ful he  was !  In  helmet  and  coat  of  mail  he  might  have 
stood  as  model  for  a  statue  of  an  ancient  Athenian. 
He  had  the  unfathomable  eyes  of  a  poet,  but  the 
lower  part  of  his  face  was  that  of  a  conqueror,  his 
whole  being  was  instinct  with  genius  and  refinement 
and  warm  poetic  feeling,  and  the  congregation  were 
awed  to  see  him  thus. 

They  had  grown  accustomed  to  see  him  stagger- 
ing out  of  the  tavern,  with  his  boon  companions, 
Colonel  Beerencreutz  and  Kristian  Bergh,  "the 
strong  captain." 

He  had  been  drinking  so  heavily  that  for  several 
weeks  he  had  been  unable  to  perform  the  duties  of 
his  office,  and  the  parish  had  been  forced  to  lodge 
a  complaint  against  him,  first  to  the  rector,  and  then 
to  the  Bishop  and  Council.. The  Bishop  had  come 
to  investigate  the  matter  and  was  sitting  in  the  choir, 
wearing  his  gold  cross  of  office  upon  his  breast,  and 
was  surrounded  by  the  clergy  from  Karlstad  and 
from  the  immediate  parishes. 


4  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

There  was  no  doubt  that  the  preacher's  conduct 
had  exceeded  all  bounds.  People  were  lenient  in 
those  days  —  between  1820  and  1830 — in  the  mat- 
ter of  drink;  but  this  man  had  utterly  neglected  his 
sacred  duties  for  its  sake,  and  he  was  now  to  be 
deprived  of  his  office. 

He  stood  in  the  pulpit  as  the  last  verse  of  the 
hymn  was  being  sung. 

A  certainty  grew  upon  him,  as  he  stood  there, 
that  every  one  in  the  church  was  an  enemy.  The 
gentry  in  the  gallery,  the  peasants  filling  the  nave, 
the  confirmation  candidates  in  the  choir,  all  were  his 
enemies,  and  so  were  the  organ-blower  and  the  or- 
ganist. The  vestry-men's  pew  was  full  of  enemies. 
They  all  hated  and  despised  him,  from  the  babies 
in  arms  to  the  stifF  arid  rigid  sexton  who  had  fought 
at  Leipzig.  He  longed  to  throw  himself  on  his  knees 
before  them  and  beg  for  mercy.  But  a  moment  later, 
a  silent  storm  of  rage  took  possession  of  him.  He 
remembered  only  too  well  what  he  had  been  but  a 
short  year  ago,  when  he  had  stood  in  that  pulpit  for 
the  first  time.  He  gave  no  cause  for  reproach  then. 
Now  he  stood  there  again  and  saw  before  him  the 
man  with  the  gold  cross,  who  had  come  to  condemn 
him. 

While  he  read  the  introductory  prayer,  the  blood 
surged  to  his  face  in  waves  of  anger. 

He  could  not  deny  the  charge — he  had  been 
drinking.  But  who  could  blame  him  ?  Had  they  seen 


THE  PASTOR  5 

the  parsonage  where  he  lived?  The  pine  forest  stood 
dark  and  gloomy  round  his  very  windows;  the  moist- 
ure soaked  through  the  black  rafters  and  ran  down 
the  fungus-covered  walls.  Surely  a  man  required  the 
help  of  strong  spirits  to  keep  up  his  courage,  when 
rain  and  driving  snow  rushed  through  the  broken 
window-panes,  when  the  ill-tilled  soil  hardly  gave 
him  enough  to  keep  hunger  from  the  door! 

He  thought  he  had  been  the  very  pastor  for 
them;  for  they  all  drank.  Why  should  he  alone 
control  himself?  If  a  man  buried  his  wife,  he  was 
dead  drunk  at  the  funeral ;  the  man  who  christened 
his  child  gave  a  drinking  bout  after  the  christen- 
ing; the  people  returning  from  church  drank  all  the 
way  home — a  drunken  pastor  was  the  very  man 
for  them. 

It  was  on  his  parochial  rounds,  when  driving  in 
his  thin  coat  for  miles  over  the  frozen  lakes,  where 
the  cold  winds  held  high  revel,  or  battling  in  his 
boat  in  storm  and  driving  rain;  when  in  whirling 
snowstorms  he  must  leave  his  sledge,  and  lead  his 
horse  through  mighty  snowdrifts;  when  tramping 
through  forest  marshes — it  was  then  he  had  learned 
to  love  strong  drink. 

The  days  dragged  along  in  heavy  gloom.  Peasant 
and  lord  went  their  way  with  thoughts  tied  to  earth 
till  the  evening  brought  freedom,  when,  loosened 
by  wine,  their  spirits  rose  and  cast  aside  their  bonds. 
Inspiration  came  to  them,  their  hearts  glowed,  and 


6  COST  A  BERLING'S  SAGA 

life  grew  beautiful — full  of  music  and  the  scent  of 
roses.  To  the  young  preacher,  the  tap-room  of  the 
tavern  became  transformed  to  a  southern  pleasure- 
garden;  olives  and  grapes  hung  above  him,  marble 
columns  gleamed  through  thick  foliage,  poets  and 
philosophers  strolled  and  conversed  under  the  palm 
trees. 

No !  —  the  preacher  in  that  pulpit  knew  that  life 
without  drink  was  unbearable  in  that  isolated  part 
of  the  world.  All  his  hearers  knew  it  too,  yet  they 
had  come  to  condemn  him. 

They  meant  to  tear  away  his  priestly  gown,  be- 
cause he  had  come  a  drunkard  to  the  house  of  their 
God.  Oh,  the  hypocrites,  had  they,  did  they  really 
think  they  had,  any  other  God  than  their  drink? 

He  had  finished  the  opening  prayer,  and  now 
knelt  to  say  "Our  Father." 

There  was  breathless  silence  in  the  church.  Sud- 
denly he  clutched  with  both  hands  the  band  that 
held  his  gown  in  place;  for  it  seemed  to  him  that 
all  the  congregation,  with  the  Bishop  at  their  head, 
were  creeping  silently  up  the  pulpit  steps,  intent  on 
tearing  it  from  his  shoulders.  He  was  on  his  knees 
and  did  not  turn  his  head,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  felt  them  pulling,  and  he  saw  them  so  distinctly 
— the  Bishop  and  the  dean,  all  the  rectors  and 
the  vestry-men,  pressing  forward,  and  he  pictured 
how  they  would  all  fall,  one  over  the  other,  when  the 
clasp  gave  way  —  even  those  who  had  not  reached 


THE  PASTOR  7 

him  but  had  been  pulling  at  the  coats  of  those  before 
them. 

He  saw  it  so  clearly,  he  could  not  help  smiling, 
though  the  cold  sweat  broke  out  on  his  forehead. 
It  was  horrible. 

He,  to  be  an  outcast  on  account  of  drink — a  dis- 
graced clergyman !  Was  there  any  one  on  earth  more 
despicable? 

He,  to  be  a  wayside  beggar,  to  lie  drunk  in  the 
ditches,  go  clad  in  rags,  and  consort  with  vaga- 
bonds! 

The  prayer  was  over,  and  he  was  about  to  read 
his  sermon,  when  a  thought  struck  him  and  checked 
the  words  on  his  lips.  He  remembered  that  this 
would  be  the  last  time  he  would  stand  in  a  pulpit 
and  proclaim  the  glory  of  God. 

The  last  time — that  touched  him.  He  forgot  the 
Bishop  and  the  drinking;  he  only  felt  that  he  must 
take  the  opportunity  and  bear  witness  to  the  glory 
of  his  God. 

The  nave  of  the  church,  with  all  his  hearers, 
seemed  to  sink  deep,  deep  down:  the  roof  was  raised, 
and  he  could  see  right  into  heaven.  He  stood  alone, 
his  soul  soaring  to  the  opening  heavens,  and  his 
voice  grew  strong  and  joyous  as  he  spoke  of  the 
glory  of  God. 

He  was  inspired,  and  forgot  his  written  text; 
while  thoughts  descended  upon  him  like  a  flight  of 
tame  doves,  and  he  felt  that  it  was  not  he  who  spoke. 


8  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

But  he  also  knew  that  none  could  surpass  him  in 
splendor  and  majesty,  as  he  stood  there  and  bore 
witness  to  his  God. 

While  the  fire  of  inspiration  burned,  he  spoke; 
but  as  it  presently  ebbed  away,  and  the  heavens 
closed,  and  the  nave  of  the  church  rose  again  from 
the  depths,  he  fell  on  his  knees  and  wept,  for  he 
knew  that  life  held  for  him  no  higher  moment,  and 
it  was  past. 

After  the  morning  service  there  was  a  vestry  meet- 
ing, presided  over  by  the  Bishop,  who  inquired  what 
cause  of  complaint  the  congregation  had  against 
their  pastor. 

No  longer  angry  and  defiant,  as  he  had  been 
before  the  sermon,  the  young  man  hung  his  head 
in  shame.  Oh,  the  wretched  stories  that  would  now 
be  brought  forward! 

But  no  one  spoke — there  was  silence  round  the 
big  table  in  the  vestry  house. 

He  glanced  round,  first  at  the  sexton — he  was 
silent;  then  at  the  vestry-men,  the  richer  peasants, 
the  owners  of  the  iron  works  —  they  were  all  silent. 
They  sat  with  firmly  closed  lips  and  looked  down 
at  the  table  rather  awkwardly. 

"They  are  waiting  for  some  one  to  speak  first," 
he  thought. 

At  last  one  of  the  vestry-men  cleared  his  throat. 

"  I  think  I  may  say  that,  we  have  a  v£ry  excep- 
tional pastor,"  he  said. 


THE  PASTOR  9 

"  Your  Lordship  has  heard  how  he  can  preach," 
put  in  the  sexton. 

The  Bishop  mentioned  the  unobservance  of  the 
church  services. 

"Our  pastor  may  be  ill  occasionally,  like  any 
other  man,"  replied  the  peasants. 

He  hinted  at  their  previously  expressed  disap- 
proval of  his  ways. 

They  defended  him  with  one  accord.  He  was  so 
young,  there  was  no  danger  but  things  would  come 
right.  Indeed,  if  he  would  only  preach  every  Sun- 
day as  he  had  preached  that  morning,  they  would 
not  exchange  him  for  the  Bishop  himself. 

There  was  no  prosecution,  there  could  be  no 
judgment. 

The  pastor  felt  how  his  heart  expanded,  how 
lightly  the  blood  flowed  along  his  veins.  Ah !  he  was 
no  longer  among  enemies,  he  had  won  these  people 
when  he  had  least  expected  it,  and  he  could  retain 
his  priestly  calling. 

When  the  meeting  was  over,  the  Bishop,  all  the 
clergy,  and  the  chief  parishioners  went  to  dine  at 
the  parsonage. 

The  wife  of  a  neighbor  had  undertaken  to  ar- 
range matters,as  the  young  preacher  was  unmarried. 
She  had  managed  everything  in  the  best  possible 
manner,  and  for  the  first  time  he  saw  that  the  par- 
sonage could  be  made  habitable.  The  long  dining- 
table  had  been  carried  out  of  doors,  and  stood  under 


io  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

the  pine  trees,  looking  very  inviting  with  its  snowy 
cloth,  its  blue  and  white  china,  its  glittering  glass, 
and  bright-colored  serviettes.  Two  birch  trees  had 
been  cut  down  and  placed  close  to,  the  house  door 
as  a  decoration,  juniper  twigs  were  strewn  over  the 
hall  floor,  garlands  hung  from  the  ceiling,  flowers 
decked  every  room,  the  smell  of  mould  had  been 
expelled,  and  the  green  window-panes  shone  cheer- 
fully in  the  sunlight. 

The  young  pastor  was  so  radiantly  happy,  he  felt 
sure  he  would  never  drink  again. 

All  who  sat  at  that  dinner  rejoiced;  those  who 
had  forgiven  past  transgressions  were  happy,  and 
the  clergy  were  glad  to  have  escaped  a  great  scandal. 

The  good  Bishop  raised  his  glass,  and  told  them 
that  he  had  entered  upon  this  visit  with  a  heavy 
heart,  for  he  had  heard  many  evil  reports.  He  had 
gone  forth  to  meet  Saul — but  behold,  Saul  had  been 
changed  to  Paul,  who  was  to  do  greater  work  than 
any  among  them.  And  the  reverend  man  spoke  of 
the  rich  talents  which  were  the  portion  of  their 
young  brother,  and  praised  them  highly,  not  with 
the  intent  of  awakening  his  vanity,  but  as  an  en- 
couragement to  put  forth  all  his  strength  and  guard 
himself,  as  all  they  must  do  who  have  a  more  than 
usually  heavy  but  precious  burden  to  bear. 

The  young  pastor  drank  no  wine  at  that  dinner, 
but  he  was  intensely  excited.  The  great  and  unex- 
pected happiness  affected  him — the  divine  fire  of 


THE  PASTOR  n 

inspiration  had  touched  him,  and  he  had  won  the 
love  of  his  fellow-men;  and  when  evening  came,  and 
all  his  guests  had  departed, the  blood  still  coursed  at 
fever  heat  through  his  veins.  Late  into  the  night, 
he  sat  in  his  room,  letting  the  air  stream  in  through 
the  open  window  to  cool  that  feverish  excitement, 
that  restless  happiness  which  would  not  let  him 
sleep. 

Suddenly  a  voice  broke  the  silence. 

"Are  you  still  awake,  parson?' 

And  a  man  strode  over  the  grass  plot  to  the  open 
window. 

The  pastor  recognized  Captain  Kristian  Bergh, 
one  of  his  most  staunch  boon  companions.  An  ad- 
venturer without  house  or  home  was  this  Captain 
Kristian  —  a  giant  in  size  and  strength,  as  big  as 
Gurlita  Cliff,  and  as  stupid  as  a  mountain  gnome. 

"Of  course  I'm  awake,"  he  answered;  "this  is 
no  night  for  sleeping." 

And  listen  to  what  the  Captain  tells  him!  The 
giant,  too,  had  his  ideas  upon  the  events  of  the  day 
—  he  understood  that  the  time  had  come  when  his 
friend  might  fear  to  continue  in  the  old  ways.  He 
could  never  feel  secure  now — those  clergy  men  from 
Karlstad,  who  had  been  here  once,  might  come 
again;  so  he,  Kristian  Bergh,  had  laid  his  heavy 
hand  to  the  good  work,  and  had  so  arranged  mat- 
ters that  they  would  never  come  again — neither 
they  nor  the  Bishop.  Hereafter,  he  and  his  friend 


i2  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

might  drink  as  much  as  they  pleased  at  the  parson- 
age. 

Hear  him,  what  a  feat  he  has  accomplished! 

When  the  Bishop  and  his  two  companions  had 
entered  their  carriage,  and  the  door  had  been  firmly 
closed  upon  them,  he  had  climbed  upon  the  driv- 
ing seat,  and  had  driven  them  a  dozen  miles  on  their 
homeward  way  in  the  clear  summer  night. 

It  was  then  they  had  learned  that  life  sits  inse- 
curely even  in  the  worthiest  breasts.  He  had  driven 
at  a  break-neck  pace,  as  a  punishment  on  them  for 
not  allowing  an  honest  man  to  drink  in  peace. 

He  did  not  drive  along  the  road,  or  guide  the 
horses,  but  went  over  ditches,  and  half-cleared  fields 
full  of  tree  stumps.  He  tore  down  the  hillsides  and 
along  the  shores  of  lakes,  where  the  water  splashed 
over  the  wheels  and  the  carriage  half  sank  in  the 
marshy  ground,  and  over  bare  rocks,  where  the 
horses  slid  downward  on  stiffly  braced  feet.  And 
meanwhile,  behind  the  leather  curtains,  the  Bishop 
and  his  companions  were  muttering  prayers  in  terror 
for  their  lives  —  they  had  never  known  such  danger 
before. 

Imagine  what  was  their  appearance  when  they 
arrived  at  Rissater  post  station,  alive,  but  shaking 
like  peas  in  a  pod! 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  Captain  Kris- 
tian?"  asked  the  Bishop,  as  the  Captain  opened  the 
door  for  him. 


.THE  PASTOR  13 

"  The  meaning  is  that  the  Bishop  will  think  twice 
before  making  a  second  visitation  to  Gosta  Ber- 
ling,"  replied  the  Captain,  having  prepared  the  sen- 
tence beforehand. 

"  Greet  Gosta  Berling  from  me,"  answered  the 
Bishop,  "and  say  that  neither  I  nor  any  other 
bishop  will  ever  come  to  him  again." 

And  this  was  the  brave  deed  told  at  the  open 
window  on  that  summer  night.  Captain  Kristian 
had  only  had  time  to  return  the  horses  to  the  post 
station  and  come  on  with  the  news. 

"  And  now  you  can  be  at  peace,  good  comrade," 
said  he. 

But  ah !  Kristian  Bergh,  the  rectors  sat  with  pale 
faces  behind  the  leather  curtains,  but  the  face  of 
this  preacher  is  paler  still.  He  even  lifted  -his  arm 
and  aimed  a  fearful  blow  at  the  coarse,  stupid  face 
of  the  giant  before  him,  but  he  checked  himself, 
closed  the  window  with  a  crash,  and  turned  into  the 
room,  shaking  his  clenched  fist  above  his  head. 

He,  who  with  divine  inspiration  had  proclaimed 
the  majesty  of  God  that  morning, felt  now  that  God 
had  mocked  him. 

The  Bishop  could  only  think  that  Captain  Bergh 
had  been  instructed ;  he  must  believe  he  had  acted 
the  hypocrite  all  day.  He  would  be  suspended  and 
dismissed. 

When  morning  came,  the  young  pastor  had  left 
the  parish.  It  was  not  worth  while  to  remain  and  try 


14  COST  A  BERLING'S  SAGA 

to  defend  himself.  God  had  mocked  him.  He  would 
not  help  him.  He  knew  he  would  be  disgraced, 
God  willed  it  so,  and  he  might  as  well  go  at  once. 

This  took  place  about  1820  in  a  distant  parish 
in  western  Varmland. 

It  was  the  first  misfortune  that  befell  Gosta  Ber- 
ling;  it  was  not  the  last. 

Young  horses  who  cannot  bear  the  whip  or  spur 
find  life  hard.  At  every  smart  they  start  forward  and 
rush  to  their  destruction,  and  when  the  way  is  stony 
and  difficult,  they  know  no  better  expedient  than 
to  overturn  the  cart  and  gallop  madly  away. 


The  llerrar 

oo 

ONE  cold  day  in  December  a  beggar  was  climb- 
ing the  ascent  to  Bro.  He  was  clad  in  the  poor- 
est rags,  and  his  shoes  were  so  worn  that  the  cold 
snow  wet  his  feet. 

The  Lofven  is  a  long,  narrow  lake  in  Varmland, 
contracting  at  several  points  to  a  mere  strait.  It 
stretches  northward  to  the  Finn  Forests  and  south- 
ward to  Vanern.  Several  parishes  lie  along  its  shores, 
but  the  parish  of  Bro  is  the  largest  and  most  wealthy. 
1 1  comprises  a  wide  expanse  of  country,  both  on  the 
eastern  and  western  shores  of  the  lake ;  but  the  larger 
estates,  such  as  Ekeby  and  Bjorne,  renowned  for 
their  riches  and  their  natural  beauty,  lie  on  the  west- 
ern shore,  and  here  also  is  the  large  village  of  Bro, 
with  its  parsonage  and  county  court,  its  Major's 
house,  and  inn,  and  market-place. 

The  village  is  built  on  a  steep  slope.  The  beggar 
had  passed  the  tavern  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  was 
making  his  way  to  the  parsonage,  which  stood  on 
the  crest. 

Before  him,  on  the  road,  a  little  girl  was  dragging 
a  small  hand-sledge  laden  with  a  sack  of  flour.  The 
beggar  overtook  and  spoke  to  her. 

"  What  a  little  horse  to  drag  such  a  heavy  load!' 
he  said. 

The  child  turned  and  glanced  at  him.  She  was 


16  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

small  for  her  twelve  years,  and  had  sharp,  inquiring 
eyes  and  a  firmly  closed  mouth. 

"Would  to  God  the  horse  was  smaller  and  the 
load  bigger,  so  it  would  last  longer,"  she  answered. 

"Are  you  taking  home  your  own  fodder,  then?' 

"Yes,  I  am.  Young  as  I  am,  I  must  find  my  own 

i*   •       » 

living. 

The  beggar  grasped  the  back  of  the  sledge,  in- 
tending to  help  it  forward,  but  she  turned  instantly, 
saying, 

"You  need  not  think  I  shall  give  you  anything 
for  your  trouble." 

He  laughed. 

"You  must  surely  be  the  daughter  of  the  Broby 
parson,"  he  exclaimed. 

"That  is  just  who  I  am.  Many  have  a  poorer 
father,  none  have  a  worse,  though  it  is  a  shame  his 
own  child  should  say  so." 

"Is  it  true,  then,  that  he  is  both  a  miser  and 
wicked,  this  father  of  yours?' 

"He  is  miserly,  and  he  is  wicked;  but  people 
say  his  daughter  will  be  worse,  if  she  lives." 

"  I  should  think  they  might  be  right.  I  should 
like  to  know  where  you  got  that  sack  of  flour?' 

"Well,  it  makes  no  difference  if  you  know  or  not. 
I  took  the  rye  out  of  the  granary  this  morning, 
and  I  've  been  to  the  mill  with  it." 

"Won't  he  see  it  when  you  bring  it  home?' 
Well,  you  certainly  never  finished  your  appren- 


(C 


THE  BEGGAR  17 

ticeship.   My  father  is  away  on  parish  duty,  of 


course.' 


(C 


There  is  someone  driving  behind  us.  I  hear  the 
snow  creaking  under'  the  sledge  runners.  Think — 
if  it  should  be  he!1 

The  child  listened  and  looked  round,  and  then 
burst  into  a  storm  of  tears. 

"It  is  father,"  she  sobbed.  "He  will  kill  me — 
he  will  kill  me!" 

"H'm,  good  advice  is  precious,  and  prompt  ad- 
vice is  better  than  silver  and  gold,"  remarked  the 
beggar. 

"See,"  cried  the  child, "you  can  help  me.  Take 
the  rope  and  draw  the  sledge,  and  father  will  think 
it  is  yours." 

"What  shall  I  do  with  it  afterwards?"  asked  the 
man,  as  he  threw  the  rope  over  his  shoulders. 

"Take  it  where  you  like  at  present,  but  when  it 
gets  dark,  bring  it  to  the  parsonage.  I  '11  be  on  the 
lookout  for  you.  Mind  you  bring  both  sledge  and 
flour;  you  understand?' 

"I '11  try." 

"God  have  mercy  on  you  if  you  don't,"  she 
shouted,  as  she  sprang  up  the  path  to  reach  home 
before  her  father  arrived. 

The  beggar  turned  the  sledge,  and  with  a  heavy 
heart  guided  it  back  to  the  tavern. 

He,  poor  wretch,  had  had  his  dream  while  wan- 
dering through  the  snow  with  half-frozen  feet.  He 


1 8  COST  A  BERLING'S  SAGA 

had  dreamed  of  the  great  forest  north  of  the  lake, 
of  the  great  primeval  forest. 

Here,  in  the  parish  of  Bro,  as  he  made  his  way 
from  the  Upper  to  the  Lower  Lofven,  in  this  land 
of  wealth  and  joy,  where  the  estates  lay  side  by  side, 
and  the  great  iron  foundries  adjoined  one  another, 
every  path  seemed  too  steep  for  him,  every  room 
too  narrow,  every  bed  too  hard.  A  bitter  longing  for 
the  quiet  of  the  great  forest  had  taken  possession 
of  him. 

Here,  he  heard  the  thunder  of  the  flails  on  every 
threshing  floor,  as  if  the  grain  were  unfailing;  here, 
loads  of  timber  came  in  endless  succession  from  the 
inexhaustible  forests,  and  the  heavy  wagons  of  ore 
obliterated  thedeep  ruts  cut  into  the  roads  by  the  pre- 
ceding carts;  here,  sledgefuls  of  guests  drove  from 
one  estate  to  another,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if 
Joy  held  the  reins,  and  Youth  and  Beauty  stood  on 
the  runners.  Oh,  how  he  longed,  as  he  watched  them, 
longed  for  the  peace  of  the  everlasting  forest! 

There  the  trees  rise  straight  and  column-like  from 
the  level,  snow-covered  ground.  Wreaths  of  snow 
hang  on  the  motionless  branches;  the  wind  is 
powerless,  and  can  only  sway  gently  the  tops  of  the 
fir  trees.  He  would  go  there,  make  his  way  into  the 
very  depth  of  the  great  forest,  till  his  strength  failed 
him,  and  he  fell  down  under  the  great  trees  to  die 
of  hunger  and  cold. 

He  longed  for  the  great  murmuring  grave  which 


THE  BEGGAR  19 

awaited  him  beyond  the  Lofven,  where  the  powers 
of  death  would  at  last  gain  the  mastery  over  him, 
where  hunger  and  cold  and  weariness  and  past 
drunkenness  would  at  last  destroy  the  body,  which 
had  been  able  to  withstand  so  much. 

He  returned  to  the  tavern,  intending  to  remain 
there  till  the  evening,  and  entered  the  tap-room, 
where  he  rested  in  heavy  mood  on  the  bench,  still 
dreaming  of  the  everlasting  forest. 

The  landlady  took  pity  on  him,  and  gave  him 
a  glass  of  strong  gin.  She  even  gave  him  a  second 
glass,  as  he  begged  so  eagerly  for  it;  but  more  than 
that  she  refused,  and  the  beggar  grew  desperate.  He 
must  have  some  more  of  that  strong,  sweet  drink, 
his  heart  must  dance  once  more,  his  thoughts  flame 
in  the  transport  of  intoxication !  Oh,  that  sweet 
drink!  Summer's  sun  and  summer's  song,  sum- 
mer's scent  and  beauty  were  surging  in  its  white 
transparency.  Once  again,  before  he  departed  into 
night  and  darkness,  he  must  drink  of  the  summer's 
sun  and  joy. 

So  he  bartered  first  the  flour,  then  the  sack,  and 
lastly  the  sledge  for  drink.  He  had  got  sufficient 
now,  and  slept  away  the  most  of  the  afternoon  in 
the  tap-room. 

When  he  awoke,  he  knew  there  was  but  one  thing 
left  for  him  to  do.  As  his  miserable  body  had  so 
completely  gained  ascendency  over  his  soul;  as  he 
had  fallen  so  low  that  he  could  betray  the  trust  of 


20  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

a  child;  as  he  was  a  living  shame  on  earth,  he  must 
relieve  the  earth  of  the  burden  of  so  much  wretch- 
edness. He  must  free  his  soul  and  let  it  return  to 
God. 

As  he  lay  half  stupefied  on  the  bench,  he  passed 
sentence  upon  himself.  "  Gosta  Berling,  disgraced 
clergyman,  charged  with  stealing  the  sustenance  of 
a  hungry  child,  is  sentenced  to  death.  What  death? 
—  Death  in  the  snowdrifts." 

He  clutched  his  cap  and  staggered  out.  He  was 
not  quite  awake,  nor  was  he  sober,  and  he  wept, 
thinking  of  his  degraded  soul  which  he  was  going  to 
set  at  liberty.  He  did  not  go  far,  nor  did  he  leave 
the  highway.  A  deep  drift  lay  close  at  hand;  he  cast 
himself  into  it  and  tried  to  sleep  again.' 

None  knew  how  long  he  lay  there,  but  life  still 
dwelt  within  him  when,  later  in  the  evening,  the 
parson's  little  daughter  ran  down  the  road  with  a 
light  in  her  hand  and  found  him  lying  there.  She 
had  expected  him  hours  ago,  and  at  last  ran  down 
to  the  village  to  find  him.  She  recognized  him  at 
once,  and  tried  to  shake  him,  screaming  loudly. 

She  must  know  what  he  had  done  with  her  sack 
of  flour.  He  must  revive,  if  only  to  tell  her  what  had 
become  of  the  sledge  and  meal-sack.  Her  father 
would  kill  her  if  the  sledge  were  not  forthcoming. 
She  bit  the  hand  of  the  sleeping  man,  scratched  his 
face,  and  screamed  as  if  crazy. 

Just  then  some  one  drove  by. 


THE  BEGGAR  21 

"Who  the  devil  is  screaming  like  that?"  a  harsh 
voice  called. 

"  I  want  to  know  what  this  man  has  done  with  my 
meal-sack  and  my  sledge,"  sobbed  the  child,  con- 
tinuing to  beat  with  clenched  fists  on  the  beggar's 
breast. 

"Is  it  a  frozen  man  you  are  treating  like  that? 
Off  with  you,  you  wild  cat!* 

The  new  arrival  was  a  big,  rough  woman.  She  got 
out  of  her  sledge,  and  came  to  the  drift;  she  lifted 
up  the  child  by  the  back  of  her  neck  and  flung  her 
into  the  road,  stooped,  and  slipping  her  arms  under 
the  unconscious  man,  carried  him  to  her  sledge  and 
laid  him  gently  down. 

"  Come  with  me  to  the  tavern,  wild  cat,"  she  called 
to  the  parson's  daughter, "and  we  will  see  what  you 
have  to  do  with  this  affair." 

An  hour  later  the  beggar  was  sitting  on  a  chair 
near  the  door  of  the  best  room  in  the  tavern,  and 
before  him  stood  the  imperious  woman  who  had 
saved  his  life. 

As  Gosta  Berling  now  saw  her,  on  her  way  home 
from  inspecting  the  charcoal-burning  in  the  forest, 
with  sooty  hands,  a  clay  pipe  in  her  mouth,  dressed 
in  a  short  jacket  of  unlined  sheepskin  over  a  striped 
woollen  homespun  skirt,  with  tarred  boots  on  her 
feet  and  a  sheathed  knife  thrust  into  the  breast  of 
her  jacket, — as  he  saw  her  thus,  with  her  grey  hair 
brushed  away  from  her  beautiful  face,  he  had  heard 


22  COST  A  BERLING'S  SAGA 

her  described  scores  of  times,  and  he  knew  at  once 
he  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  famous  lady  of 
the  Manor,  the  Major's  wife  at  Ekeby. 

She  was  the  most  powerful  woman  in  Varmland, 
the  owner  of  seven  foundries,  accustomed  to  com- 
mand and  to  be  obeyed;  and  he  was  only  a  misera- 
bly weak  man,  waiting  for  death,  destitute  of  every- 
thing, knowing  full  well  that  every  path  was  too 
steep  for  him,  every  room  too  narrow,  and  he  trem- 
bled as  she  looked  at  him. 

She  stood  for  some  time  gazing  silently  at  the 
human  wreck  before  her — at  the  red,  swollen  hands, 
the  enfeebled  body,  and  the  splendid  head,  which 
even  in  its  downfall  was  radiant  in  wild  beauty. 

"You  are  Gosta  Berling,  the  mad  parson?"  she 
asked. 

The  beggar  was  silent. 

"I  am  the  Major's  wife  at  Ekeby!" 

A  shudder  ran  through  him.  He  clasped  his 
hands  tremblingly  and  lifted  beseeching  eyes.  What 
would  she  do?  Would  she  compel  him  to  live?  He 
trembled  before  her  power.  And  he  had  so  nearly 
gained  the  peace  of  the  everlasting  forest ! 

She  opened  the  conversation  by  saying  that  the 
child  had  received  her  sledge  and  sack  of  flour,  and 
that  she  had  a  refuge  for  him,  as  for  so  many  other 
waifs  and  strays,  in  the  cavaliers'  wing  at  Ekeby 
Hall.  She  offered  him  a  life  of  idleness  and  pleasure, 
but  he  answered  that  he  must  die. 


THE  BEGGAR  23 

Then  she  struck  the  table  with  her  clenched  fist, 
and  gave  him  a  piece  of  her  mind. 

"Oh,  indeed,  you  want  to  die,  do  you?  Well,  I 
shouldn't  have  been  so  greatly  surprised  if  I  had 
found  you  to  be  really  alive.  But  look  at  your  half- 
starved  body,  your  helpless  limbs,  and  dim  eyes! 
Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  there  is  anything  left  to 
kill?  Do  you  suppose  it  is  necessary  to  lie  stiff  and 
straight  and  to  be  nailed  into  a  coffin  to  be  dead? 
Don't  you  suppose  that,  standing  here,  I  can  see 
how  dead  you  are,  Gosta  Berling?  What  have  you 
but  a  skull  in  place  of  a  head,  and  worms  creeping 
out  of  your  eyes?  Don't  you  taste  the  earth  in  your 
mouth,  and  don't  you  hear  your  bones  rattle  when 
you  move?  You  have  drowned  yourself  in  drink, 
Gosta  Berling;  you  are  already  dead. 

"Is  it  the  shame  of  having  once  been  a  preacher 
that  is  driving  you  now  to  kill  yourself?  More 
honor  would  be  gained  if  you  would  employ  your 
talents  and  be  of  some  use  on  God's  green  earth. 
Why  didn't  you  come  to  me  in  your  trouble,  and 
I  should  have  put  things  right  for  you?  And  now 
I  suppose  you  expected  to  win  some  respect  when 
you  were  laid  out,  and  people  spoke  of  you  as  a 
beautiful  corpse?' 

The  beggar  sat  calm,  almost  smiling,  while  she 
thundered  forth  her  anger.  "No  fear,"  he  thought, 
joyfully;  "the  forest  awaits  me,  she  has  no  power 


to  move  me.1 


cc 
cc 


24  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

But  suddenly  the  Major's  wife  was  silent — and 
took  two  or  three  turns  about  the  room.  Then  she 
drew  up  a  chair  to  the  fire,  placed  her  feet  on  the 
hearth,  and  rested  her  elbows  on  her  knees. 

Good  God,"  she  said,  half  laughing  to  herself, 
what  I  said  was  so  true,  I  did  n't  notice  it  myself. 
Don't  you  think,  Gosta  Berling,  that  most  people 
in  the  world  are  dead  or  half  dead?  Do  you  think 
we  are  all  alive?  Ah,  no! 

"  Look  at  me.  I  am  the  Lady  of  the  Manor  at 
Ekeby  and  the  most  powerful  woman  in  Varmland. 
If  I  lift  a  finger,  the  county  police  must  skip;  if  I 
lift  two,  the  bishop  does  the  same;  and  if  I  lift  three, 
I  can  make  the  archbishop  and  council  and  all  the 
judges  and  landed  proprietors  in  Varmland  dance 
a  polka  on  Karlstad  market-place.  And  yet  I  tell 
you,  boy,  I  am  nothing  but  a  dressed-up  corpse. 
God  alone  knows  how  little  life  there  is  in  me!>: 

The  beggar  leaned  forward  in  his  chair  and 
listened  anxiously.  The  old  lady  rocked  herself 
before  the  fire,  and  never  glanced  at  him  as  she 
spoke. 

"Don't  you  think,"  she  continued,  "that  if  I 
were  a  living  soul,  and  saw  you  sitting  there,  mis- 
erable and  sad,  with  thoughts  of  suicide  in  your 
mind,  that  I  could  dispel  them  in  a  breath?  I  should 
have  tears  and  prayers  to  move  you,  and  I  should 
save  you  —  but  now — I  am  dead.  God  knows  how 
little  life  there  is  in  me! 


THE  BEGGAR  25 

"  Have  you  never  heard  that  once  I  was  the  beau- 
tiful Margarita  Celsing?  It  was  n't  quite  yesterday, 
but  even  yet  I  can  weep  my  old  eyes  red  when  I 
think  of  her.  Why  is  Margarita  Celsing  dead  —  and 
Margarita  Samzelius  living?  Why  should  the  Ma- 
jor's wife  at  Ekeby  be  alive,  Gosta  Berling? 

"Do  you  know  what  Margarita  Celsing  was 
like?  She  was  tall  and^slight  and  gentle,  and  knew 
no  evil;  she  was  a  girl  over  whose  grave  the  angels 
wept.  She  knew  no  evil,  she  knew  no  sorrow,  and 
she  was  good  to  all.  And  she  was  beautiful,  really 
beautiful. 

"And  there  lived  a  splendid  man  in  those  days 
—  his  name  was  Altringer.  God  alone  knows  how 
he  found  his  way  up  to  the  lonely  foundry  in  the 
wilderness  where  Margarita  lived  with  her  parents. 
Margarita  saw  him  —  he  was  a  splendid  man — and 
he  loved  her. 

"But  he  was  poor;  so  they  determined  to  wait 
for  five  years,  as  they  do  in  the  ballads. 

"  But  when  three  years  had  passed,  another  man 
wanted  her.  He  was  ugly  and  wicked,  but  her  par- 
ents believed  him  to  be  rich;  and  they  forced  Mar- 
garita, by  fair  means  and  foul,  by  blows  and  hard 
words,  to  take  him  as  her  husband.  That  day  Mar- 
garita Celsing  died.  Since  then,  there  only  exists 
Major  Samzelius'  wife,  and  she  is  neither  good 
nor  gentle,  she  knows  much  evil,  and  thinks  little 
of  the  good.  I  suppose  you  have  heard  what  hap- 


26  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

pened  later.  We  lived  at  Sjo,  here  near  the  lake,  the 
Major  and  I;  but  he  was  not  as  rich  as  people  had 
said,  and  I  had  many  hard  days. 

"And  then  Altringer  came  back,  and  he  was  a 
wealthy  man.  He  was  Lord  of  Ekeby,  the  boun- 
daries of  which  joined  Sjo,  and  he  was  soon  the 
owner  of  seven  foundries  on  the  banks  of  the  Lof- 
ven.  He  was  clever  and  capable,  a  splendid  man  in 
every  way. 

"He  helped  us  in  our  poverty:  we  drove  in  his 
carriage;  he  sent  food  to  our  kitchen  and  wine  to 
our  cellar.  He  filled  my  life  with  pleasures  and 
amusements. 

"The  Major  went  to  the  wars,  but  little  we 
cared.  I  was  guest  at  Ekeby  one  day,  and  he  came 
to  Sjo  the  next.  Oh,  life  in  those  days  was  one  long 
dance  of  pleasure  along  the  shores  of  Lofven  Lake ! 
But  presently  people  began  to  talk  about  us.  If 
Margarita  Celsing  had  lived,  it  would  have  hurt 
her,  but  it  was  nothing  to  me.  Yet  I  did  n't  under- 
stand the  reason  why  I  felt  nothing, — that  it  was 
because  I  was  already  dead. 

"And  tales  of  me  were  told  to  my  father  and 
mother,  as  they  worked  among  their  mines  in  the 
Alfdal  forest.  My  mother  lost  no  time  in  consider- 
ing what  she  would  do;  she  started  off  at  once  to 
speak  to  me. 

"One  day,  when  the  Major  was  away,  and  Al- 
tringer and  some  others  were  dining  with  me,  she 


THE  BEGGAR  27 

drove  up  to  the  house.  I  saw  her  enter  the  room, 
but  I  could  not  feel  her  to  be  my  mother,  Gosta 
Berling.  I  greeted  her  as  a  stranger,  and  asked  her 
to  sit  down  and  dine  with  us. 

"She  tried  to  address  me  as  her  daughter,  but  I 
told  her  she  was  mistaken,  my  parents  were  both 
dead,  they  had  died  on  my  wedding-day. 

"And  she  entered  into  the  comedy.  She  was  sev- 
enty, and  had  driven  a  hundred  and  forty  miles 
in  three  days,  but  she  sat  down  to  her  dinner  with- 
out further  ceremony.  She  was  a  wonderfully  strong 
woman. 

"She  remarked  that  it  was  unfortunate  that  I 
should  have  experienced  such  a  loss  on  my  wed- 
ding-day. 

"'The  greater  misfortune  was/  I  replied,  cthat 
my  parents  had  not  died  a  day  earlier;  then  the 
wedding  would  never  have  come  off.' 

:<  My  lady  is  not  happy  in  her  marriage,  then?' 
c  Yes/ 1  answered, c  I  'm  happy  now.  I  am  happy 
in  obeying  the  will  of  my  dear  parents.' 

"  She  asked  me  if  it  was  their  will  that  I  should 
bring  shame  upon  myself  and  upon  them  in  deceiv- 
ing my  husband.  No  honor  was  brought  to  them  by 
my  making  myself  the  talk  of  the  country-side. 

"£They  made  their  bed,  and  they  must  lie  on  it,' 
I  replied.  'And,  by  the  way,  the  strange  lady  might 
as  well  understand  that  I  allowed  no  one  to  defame 
my  father's  daughter.' 


cc 
cc 


28  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

"  We  ate  our  dinner,  we  two — but  the  men  around 
us  sat  silent  and  dared  hardly  touch  knife  and  fork. 

"She  remained  a  day  with  me,  and  then  drove 
home  again.  But  all  the  time  I  never  felt  her  to  be 
my  mother.  It  seemed  to  me  my  mother  was  dead. 

"When  she  was  leaving,  Gosta  Berling,  and  I 
stood  beside  her  on  the  steps,  and  the  carriage  had 
driven  up,  she  said  to  me : c  I  have  been  here  a  whole 
day, and  you  have  not  recognized  me  as  your  mother. 
I  have  travelled  a  long  and  lonely  road  to  see  you 
—  a  hundred  and  forty  miles  in  three  days — and  I 
tremble  for  shame  of  you,  as  if  I  had  been  beaten. 
May  you  be  disowned  as  I  have  been,  cast  out  as  I 
have  been!  May  the  roadside  be  your  home,  straw 
be  your  bed,  and  the  lime-kiln  your  fireside !  May 
shame  and  insult  be  your  wage,  and  may  others 
smite  you  as  I  smite  you!' 

"  And  she  gave  me  a  hard  blow  on  my  cheek. 

"  But  I  lifted  her  in  my  arms,  carried  her  down, 
and  placed  her  in  the  carriage. 

"c  Who  are  you/  I  cried,  cto  dare  to  curse  me? 
Who  are  you  to  strike  me?  I  will  endure  it  from 
no  one ! ' 

"And  I  gave  her  back  the  blow  again.  The  car- 
riage drove  away  at  that  moment,  and  that  was  the 
first  time,  Gosta  Berling,  I  felt  that  Margarita  Cel- 
sing  was  dead.  She  had  been  good  and  guileless. 
Angels  wept  at  her  death.  If  she  had  lived,  she 
would  never  have  struck  her  mother." 


THE  BEGGAR  29 

The  beggar  sitting  at  the  door  listened,  and  her 
words  drowned  for  a  moment  the  tempting  mur- 
mur of  the  everlasting  forest.  This  imperious  woman 
made  herself  his  equal  in  sin,  his  sister  in  perdition, 
to  give  him  the  courage  to  take  up  his  life  again.  He 
was  to  learn  that  sorrow  and  reproach  rested  on 
other  hearts  than  his  alone. 

He  rose  and  approached  her. 

"Won't  you  live  your  life,  Gosta  Berling?"  she 
asked  in  a  voice  that  broke  into  tears.  "  Why 
should  you  die  ?  You  may  have  been  a  good  preacher, 
but  the  Gosta  Berling  you  drowned  in  drink  could 
not  have  been  as  blameless  as  the  Margarita  Celsing 
I  killed  in  hatred." 

Gosta  kneeled  before  her. "  Forgive  me  —  I  can- 
not," he  answered. 

"I  am  an  old  woman,"  she  said,  "hardened  by 
troubles,  and  yet  I  sit  here  and  give  myself  to  the 
mercy  of  a  beggar,  whom  I  found  in  a  snowdrift. 
It  serves  me  right — at  any  rate,  if  you  kill  your- 
self, you  can't  tell  anybody  what  a  fool  I  've  been." 

"  I  am  doomed.  Don't  make  the  fight  too  hard 
for  me.  I  cannot  live.  My  body  has  mastered  my 
soul.  I  must  set  it  free  and  let  it  return  to  God." 

"Oh,  indeed — you  think  it  will  go  there?' 

"Farewell — and  thank  you." 

"  Farewell,  Gosta  Berling." 

The  beggar  rose  and  went  with  bowed  head  to 
the  door.  The  woman  made  the  way  hard  for  him. 


3o  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

When  he  reached  the  door,  he  felt  compelled  to 
turn  and  glance  back  —  and  he  met  her  look  as  she 
sat  motionless  by  the  fire  and  gazed  at  him. 

He  had  never  seen  such  a  look  on  any  face,  and 
he  stood  and  stared  at  her.  She,  who  recently  had 
been  hot  and  angry  and  scornful,  was  transfigured; 
her  eyes  shone  with  sad  and  sympathizing  love. 
There  was  something  within  him  —  within  his  own 
desponding  heart,  which  broke  at  that  look.  He 
leaned  his  forehead  against  the  door-p"bst,  stretched 
his  arms  over  his  head,  and  wept  as  if  his  heart  were 
breaking. 

Margarita  Samzelius  flung  her  pipe  into  the  fire, 
and  came  to  him  with  a  movement  as  tender  as  a 
mother's. 

"Hush  —  hush — my  boy." 

And  she  drew  him  down  beside  her  on  the  bench 
near  the  door,  so  that  he  wept  with  his  head  pil- 
lowed on  her  knees. 

"Are  you  still  determined  to  die?' 

He  tried  to  rise,  but  she  held  him  down  by  gen- 
tle force. 

"  I  tell  you,  and  it  is  for  the  last  time,  you  can 
do  as  you  like;  but  if  you  will  live,  I  promise  you 
to  take  the  parson's  daughter  and  make  a  good 
woman  of  her,  so  she  will  thank  her  God  one  day 
that  you  stole  her  flour." 

He  lifted  his  head  and  looked  into  her  eyes. 

"Do  you  mean  it?" 


THE  BEGGAR  31 

"I  promise,  Gosta  Berling." 

Then  he  wrung  his  hands  in  despair.  He  saw 
before  him  the  child's  cunning  eyes,  her  little  drawn 
mouth  and  bony  hands.  She  would  receive  protec- 
tion and  be  cared  for,  and  the  marks  of  neglect 
would  disappear  from  her  body;  the  anger  would  be 
wiped  out  of  her  soul.  The  paths  to  the  forest  were 
closed  to  him. 

"I  will  not  kill  myself  while  she  is  under  your 
care,"  he  said;  "I  knew  you  would  compel  me  to 
live.  I  felt  that  you  would  be  too  strong  for  me." 

"Gosta  Berling,"  she  answered,  solemnly,  "I 
have  fought  for  you  as  for  my  own  soul.  I  said  to 
God:  'If  there  is  anything  of  Margarita  Celsing 
within  me,  let  her  come  forth  and  save  this  man/ 
and  He  granted  it.  You  felt  her  power,  and  could 
not  go.  And  it  was  whispered  to  me  that  you  would 
give  up  that  terrible  determination  for  the  sake  of 
that  poor  child.  Oh,  you  wild  birds,  you  fly  daringly, 
but  the  Lord  knows  the  net  that  will  catch  you ! ' 

"He  is  a  great  and  wonderful  God,"  said  Gosta 
Berling.  "  He  has  mocked  me  and  rejected  me,  but 
He  will  not  let  me  die.  His  will  be  done." 

From  that  day,  Gosta  Berling  became  one  of  the 
cavaliers  of  Ekeby.  Twice  he  attempted  to  make  a 
living  for  himself.  Once  the  Major's  wife  gave  him 
a  cottage  and  strip  of  land  near  Ekeby,  and  he  tried 
to  live  the  life  of  a  workman.  It  answered  for  a  time, 
but  he  grew  weary  of  the  loneliness  and  of  the  daily 


32  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

round  of  small  duties,  and  returned  to  Ekeby.  Later 
he  became  tutor  at  Borg  to  the  young  Count,  Hen- 
rik  Dohna.  While  there  he  fell  in  love  with  Ebba 
Dohna,  the  Count's  sister,  but  she  died  just  when 
he  thought  to  win  her,  and  after  that  he  gave  up  all 
thought  of  being  anything  but  a  cavalier  at  Ekeby. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  for  an  unfrocked  clergy- 
man all  roads  to  amendment  were  closed. 


The  Landscape 

NOW  I  must  beg  those  of  my  readers  who 
know  this  lake,  this  fertile  plain,  and  those 
blue  mountains,  to  skip  a  few  pages.  They  can  do 
this  without  compunction,  for  the  story  will  be  long 
enough  without  them.  But  you  will  understand  that 
I  must  describe  the  country  for  those  who  do  not 
know  it,  as  it  was  the  scene  where  Gosta  Berling  and 
the  gay  cavaliers  of  Ekeby  spent  their  lives;  and 
those  who  have  seen  it  will  understand  too  that  the 
task  surpasses  the  power  of  one  who  can  only  wield 
the  pen. 

I  should  have  chosen  to  confine  myself  to  saying 
that  the  name  of  the  lake  is  the  Lofven;  that  it  is 
long  and  narrow,  and  that  it  stretches  from  the  dis- 
tant forests  in  the  north  of  Varmland  to  the  Vanern 
lowlands  in  the  south ;  that  a  plain  borders  each  side 
of  the  lake,  and  that  a  chain  of  undulating  moun- 
tains surrounds  the  lake  valley.  But  this  is  not  suf- 
ficient, and  I  must  try  to  picture  in  more  graphic 
words  the  scene  of  my  childhood's  dreams,  the 
home  of  my  childhood's  heroes. 

The  Lofven  has  its  source  far  in  the  north,  which 
is  a  glorious  land  for  a  lake,  for  the  forests  and  hills 
gather  water  for  it  unceasingly,  and  streams  and 
brooklets  pour  into  it  all  the  year  round.  It  has  fine 
white  sand  to  recline  upon ;  it  has  islands  and  pro- 


34  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

montories  to  admire  and  reflect;  water-sprites  and 
nixies  make  it  their  playground,  and  it  soon  grows 
strong  and  beautiful.  Up  in  the  north  it  is  friendly  and 
gay.  You  should  see  it  on  an  early  summer  morn- 
ing, when  it  lies  wide  awake  under  its  veil  of  mist, 
to  understand  how  happy  it  can  seem. 

It  seems  as  if  it  would  coquette  with  you  at  first, 
so  gently,  so  gradually  does  it  creep  out  of  its  light 
covering;  and  so  enchantingly  beautiful  is  it  that 
you  hardly  recognize  it,  till  suddenly  it  flings  its  veil 
aside  and  lies  there  naked  and  rosy,  glittering  in  the 
sunshine. 

But  the  Lofven  is  not  content  with  a  life  of  plea- 
sure alone.  It  pushes  its  way  through  the  sand-hills 
on  the  south;  it  contracts  to  a  narrow  strait,  and 
seeks  a  new  kingdom  for  itself.  It  soon  finds  one, 
and  here  again  grows  strong  and  mighty;  it  falls 
a  bottomless  depth,  and  adorns  a  cultivated  land- 
scape. But  now  its  waters  grow  darker,  its  shores  are 
less  changeful,  the  winds  are  bleak,  and  the  whole 
character  of  the  lake  is  more  severe;  yet  it  remains 
ever  proud  and  stately.  Numbers  of  vessels  and  rafts 
pass  over  its  surface,  and  it  is  late  before  it  can 
go  to  its  winter  rest  —  not  until  Christmas.  It  is 
often  in  angry  mood,  and,  turning  white  with  sudden 
fury,  wrecks  the  sailing  boats,  but  it  can  also  lie 
in  dreamy  quiet  and  reflect  the  sky. 

But  once  again  it  longs  to  make  its  way  into  the 
world,  though  the  hills  are  pressing  close  around  it; 


- 


THE  LANDSCAPE  35 

and  it  must  contract  again  to  a  narrow  strait,  and 
creep  between  narrow  sandy  shores.  Then  it  broad- 
ens out  for  the  third  time,  but  not  with  its  former 
beauty  and  majesty.  Its  shores  are  lower  and  more 
monotonous,  wilder  winds  blow,  the  lake  goes  early 
to  its  winter  sleep.  It  is  still  beautiful,  but  it  has  lost 
the  strength  of  its  youth  and  manhood  —  it  is  a  lake 
like  any  other.  It  throws  out  two  arms  to  feel  its 
way  to  the  Vanern,  and  when  it  finds  it,  casts  itself 
in  aged  weakness  down  the  steep  slope,  and,  after 
this  last  thundering  exploit,  sinks  to  rest. 

A  plain  follows  the  course  of  the  Lofven,  but  it 
has  a  hard  fight  to  hold  its  own  between  the  lake 
and  the  hills,  from  the  cauldron-like  valley,  which 
is  the  lake's  most  northerly  point,  to  the  Vanern 
lowlands,  where  it  finally  gains  the  mastery,  and 
spreads  itself  wide  in  indolent  ease.  The  plain  would 
have  unquestionably  preferred  to  follow  the  lake 
shores,  but  the  hills  give  it  no  peace. 

These  hills  are  mighty  granite  walls,  covered 
with  forest,  full  of  chasms,  abounding  in  moss  and 
lichen,  difficult  to  penetrate  into,  and,  in  the  days 
we  are  speaking  of,  the  home  of  numberless  wild 
beasts.  There  is  many  a  tarn  of  inky  black  water 
and  many  a  quagmire  in  those  long,  far-reaching 
ridges.  Here  and  there  you  find  a  coal  mine,  or  an 
opening  in  the  forest  where  the  timber  has  been 
felled;  now  and  again  a  burned  clearing,  which 
shows  that  the  hills  allow  of  a  little  cultivation ;  but 


36  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

for  the  most  part  they  lie  in  placid  calm,  content  to 
let  the  lights  and  shadows  play  their  everlasting 
game  over  their  slopes. 

And  the  plain,  which  is  good  and  fertile  and  loves 
cultivation,  wages  constant  war  against  the  hills — 
in  all  friendliness,  be  it  understood. 

"It  is  sufficient/'  says  the  plain  to  the  hills,  "if 
you  raise  your  walls  around  me;  then  I  shall  be 
amply  protected/' 

But  the  hills  cannot  be  persuaded.  They  send  out 
long  stretches  of  tableland  to  the  lake;  they  make 
lovely  points  from  which  to  get  a  view;  and,  in  fact, 
it  is  so  seldom  that  they  will  leave  the  shore  that 
the  plain  hardly  ever  has  a  chance  of  rolling  itself 
down  to  the  soft  sand  of  the  lake  shore.  But  it  is 
useless  to  complain. 

"  Be  thankful  we  are  here,"  answer  the  hills."  Re- 
member the  time  before  Christmas,  when  day  after 
day  the  icy  mists  roll  over  the  Lofven.  We  are  doing 
you  a  good  turn  by  standing  here." 

The  plain  laments  its  want  of  room  and  that  it 
has  no  view. 

"You  are  stupid,"  reply  the  hills.  "You  should 
feel  how  it  blows  here  near  the  water.  At  the  least, 
it  requires  a  granite  back  and  a  pine  tree  covering 
to  bear  it  all.  Besides  which,  you  should  be  content 
with  looking  at  us." 

And  that  is  what  the  plain  does.  You  know  what 
wonderful  changes  of  light  and  shade  and  color 


THE  LANDSCAPE  37 

pass  over  the  hills.  You  have  seen  them  in  the  mid- 
day light  sinking  to  the  horizon,  pale  blue  and  low, 
and  at  morningand  evening  risingin  majestic  height, 
as  deep  a  blue  as  the  zenith  of  heaven.  Sometimes 
the  light  falls  so  sharply  upon  them,  they  look 
green  or  blue-black,  and  every  fir  tree,  every  path 
and  chasm,  shows  clearly  at  a  great  distance. 

Sometimes  the  hills  drawaside  and  allowtheplain 
to  approach  and  look  at  the  lake,  but  when  it  sees 
it  in  its  anger,  hissing  and  spitting  like  a  wild  cat, 
or  sees  it  covered  with  cold  mist  (the  water  witches 
being  busy  with  washing  and  brewing),  it  soon  ac- 
knowledges that  the  hills  were  right,  and  returns 
willingly  to  its  narrow  prison. 

For  many,  many  generations  the  plain  has  been 
cultivated,  and  great  things  have  been  done  there. 
Wherever  a  stream,  in  its  rapid  course,  has  flung 
itself  over  the  sloping  shores,  mills  and  foundries 
have  sprung  up.  On  the  light,  open  places,  where 
the  plain  comes  down  to  the  lake,  churches  and 
parsonages  have  been  built;  and  in  the  corners  of 
the  valleys,  halfway  up  the  hillsides,  on  the  stony 
ground  where  the  corn  will  not  grow,  stand  the 
peasants'  huts  and  the  officers'  buildings  and  here 
and  there  a  gentleman's  mansion. 

But  it  must  be  remembered  that  in  1820—30  the 
land  was  not  nearly  so  cultivated  nor  so  populated 
as  it  now  is.  Much  was  forest  and  lake  and  marsh 
which  is  now  reclaimed. 


38  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

The  population  was  scanty,  and  the  people  made 
their  living  partly  by  carting  and  day  work  at  the 
many  foundries ;  while  many  left  their  homes  to  find 
work  at  a  distance,  for  agriculture  alone  would  not 
pay  them.  In  those  days  they  dressed  in  homespun, 
ate  oat  cakes,  and  were  content  with  a  daily  wage  of 
a  krona.  The  poverty  was  great,  but  it  was  mitigated 
by  an  easy-going  temperament  and  an  inborn  apti- 
tude for  handicrafts,  which  greatly  developed  when 
those  people  had  to  make  their  way  among  stran- 
gers. 

And  as  these — the  lake,  the  fertile  plain,  and  the 
blue  hills — make  a  most  beautiful  landscape,  so 
these  people,  even  to-day,  are  strong,  courageous, 
and  talented.  Great  progress  has  been  made  in  their 
well-being  and  education. 

May  they  greatly  prosper,  the  dwellers  near  the 
lake  and  the  blue  hills !  It  is  some  of  their  stories  I 
will  now  tell  you. 


Christmas  Sve 

SINTRAM  was  the  name  of  the  wicked  pro- 
prietor of  Fors;  he,  with  the  clumsy  body  of 
an  ape,  with  long  arms,  bald  head,  and  ugly  grim- 
acing face;  he,  whose  whole  delight  it  was  to  devise 
evil. 

Sintram  was  the  name  of  him  who  chose  vaga- 
bonds and  brawlers  as  workmen,  and  had  only  quar- 
relling and  lying  serving-girls  about  him,  who  mad- 
dened the  dogs  by  thrusting  pins  into  their  noses, 
and  lived  happily  amid  hateful  people  and  furious 
animals. 

Sintram  was  the  name  of  the  man  whose  great- 
est pleasure  was  to  masquerade  as  the  Evil  One  in 
horns  and  tail  and  hoofs  and  hairy  hide,  and,  sud- 
denly appearing  out  of  dusky  corners,  from  behind 
the  oven  or  the  woodbox,  frighten  timid  women 
and  children. 

Sintram  was  he  who  rejoiced  to  exchange  old 
friendship  for  new  enmity,  and  to  poison  the  heart 
with  lies. 

Sintram  was  his  name — and  once  he  came  to 
Ekeby. 

•          •••••••* 

Drag  the  big  wood  sledge  into  the  forge,  pull  it  into 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  place  the  bottom  of 
a  tar  barrel  over  it !  That  will  serve  as  a  table. 


40  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

Bring  up  anything  that  will  do  to  sit  upon  — 
three-cornered  bootmakers'  stools  and  empty  pack- 
ing-cases. Bring  out  the  torn  old  armchair  without 
a  back,  and  the  old  racing  sledge  without  runners, 
and  the  ancient  coach! 

Drag  out  the  old  coach;  it  will  do  for  the  speak- 
er's chair !  Just  look  at  it !  one  wheel  is  missing,  and 
the  whole  body  of  the  carriage  has  disappeared,  only 
the  driver's  seat  remains,  the  cushion  is  ragged  and 
mouldy,  and  the  leather  is  red  with  age.  The  crazy 
old  thing  is  as  high  as  a  house.  Prop  it  up,  prop  it 
up,  or  it  will  go  over! 

Hurrah !  it  is  Christmas  Eve  at  Ekeby ! 

Behind  the  silken  hangings  of  the  double  bed 
sleep  the  Major  and  his  wife,  sleep  and  believe  that 
the  cavaliers'  wing  is  deep  in  slumber.  The  carters 
and  servant-girls  may  be  asleep,  overpowered  by 
porridge  and  strong  Christmas  ale,  but  not  the  gen- 
tlemen in  the  cavaliers'  wing.  How  could  any  one 
think  it? 

No  bare-legged  smiths  turn  the  pieces  of  molten 
iron,  no  sooty  boys  keep  up  the  supply  of  coal;  no 
big  hammer  hangs  like  an  arm  with  a  clenched  fist 
from  the  ceiling— the  anvil  is  bare,  the  furnace  does 
not  open  its  red  mouth  to  devour  the  coal,  the 
bellows  do  not  creak.  It  is  Christmas — the  forge 
slumbers. 

Sleep,  sleep !  the  cavaliers  alone  are  awake.  The 
long  pincers  stand  upright  on  the  floor  holding 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  41 

candles  in  their  claws.  Out  of  the  ten-gallon  caul- 
dron of  brightest  copper  the  flames  flash  blue  into 
the  darkness  of  the  roof.  Beerencreutz's  horn  lan- 
tern hangs  on  the  forge  hammer.  Yellow  punch 
gleams  like  sunlight  in  the  punch-bowl.  Here  is  a 
table  and  benches,  and  the  cavaliers  intend  spend-  • 
ing  Christmas  Eve  in  the  forge. 

There  is  gaiety  and  carousal,  music  and  song,  but 
the  midnight  festivity  awakens  no  one.  All  noise 
from  the  forge  is  drowned  by  the  mighty  thunder 
of  the  waterfalls  beyond  it. 

There  is  gaiety  and  carousal.  Think  if  the  Major's 
wife  were  to  see  them !  Well,  she  would  probably 
sit  down  and  empty  a  glass  with  them.  She  is  a  sen- 
sible woman,  a  loud  drinking  song  or  a  game  of 
Harlequin  would  not  frighten  her.  She  is  the  rich- 
est woman  in  Varmland,  as  gruff  as  a  man,  and  as 
proud  as  a  queen.  She  loves  song  and  the  music  of 
violins.  Cards  and  wine  she  likes,  and  a  table  sur- 
rounded with  guests.  She  likes  plenty  in  her  pantry, 
dancing  and  gaiety  in  her  halls,  and  to  have  the 
cavaliers'  wing  full  of  her  pensioners. 

Look  at  them  sitting  round  their  punch-bowl ! 
They  are  twelve  —  twelve  men  of  might.  There 
is  nothing  effeminate  about  them,  nor  are  they 
dandies,  but  men  whose  renown  will  live  long  in 
Varmland  —  brave  and  strong  men. 

They  are  not  dried  parchment  nor  closely  tied- 
up  money-bags,  but  poor  and  reckless  men,  cava- 


42  COST  A  BERLING'S  SAGA 

Hers  both  day  and  night.  They  have  not  lived  a  life 
of  ease  as  sleepy  gentlemen  on  their  own  estates, 
but  they  are  wayfarers,  happy-go-lucky  men,  the 
heroes  of  a  thousand  adventures. 

The  cavaliers*  wing  has  stood  empty  now  for 
many  years,  and  Ekeby  is  no  longer  the  chosen 
refuge  of  homeless  adventurers.  Penniless  noble- 
men and  pensioned  officers  no  longer  traverse  Varm- 
land  in  their  one-horse  shays:  but  let  the  dead  live 
again,  let  the  joyous,  careless,  ever  youthful  men 
rise  once  again ! 

They  could  all  play  one  musical  instrument,  some 
of  them  several.  They  were  all  as  full  of  peculiari- 
ties and  sayings  and  fancies  and  songs  as  an  ant-hill 
is  full  of  ants ;  but  each  had  his  special  attribute,  his 
highly  prized  cavalierly  merit,  which  distinguished 
him  from  his  companions.  First  of  all  I  must  men- 
tion Beerencreutz,  the  Colonel  with  the  thick  white 
moustache,  the  famous  camphio-player  and  singer 
of  Bellman's  songs,  and  with  him  his  friend  and 
comrade  in  the  wars,  the  silent  Major  Anders 
Fuchs,  the  great  bear  hunter.  The  third  in  the  com- 
pany would  be  little  Ruster,  the  drum-major,  who 
for  years  had  been  the  Colonel's  orderly,  but  his 
talent  for  brewing  punch  and  for  singing  double- 
bass  had  raised  him  to  the  rank  of  cavalier.  After 
him  came  the  old  ensign,  Rutger  von  Orneclou, 
a  lady  killer,  wearing  a  stock  and  wig  and  finely 
starched  frill,  and  painted  like  a  woman.  He  was 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  43 

one  of  the  chief  cavaliers,  and  so  was  Kristian 
Bergh,the  strong  captain,  who  was  a  doughty  hero, 
but  as  easily  deceived  as  the  giant  in  the  fairy  tales. 
In  the  company  of  these  two  you  often  saw  the 
little  round  Squire  Julius.  He  was  clever,  amusing, 
and  talented;  artist,  orator,  and  ballad  singer,  and 
a  good  story  teller;  and  he  was  ever  ready  with  a 
joke  at  the  expense  of  the  gouty  little  ensign  or 
the  stupid  giant. 

There  was  also  the  great  German,  Kevenhuller, 
the  inventor  of  the  self-propelling  carriage  and  the 
flying  machine,  he  whose  name  still  echoes  in  those 
murmuring  forests.  He  was  a  nobleman  by  birth 
and  appearance,  with  a  high  twisted  moustache, 
pointed  beard,  eagle  nose,  and  small,  squinting  eyes 
set  in  a  network  of  wrinkles.  Here  sat  also  the  great 
warrior,  Cousin  Kristoffer,  who  never  went  beyond 
the  walls  of  the  cavaliers'  wing,  unless  a  bear  hunt  or 
a  specially  foolhardy  adventure  was  "on  the  tapis;' 
and  near  him  sat  Uncle  Eberhard,  the  philosopher, 
who  had  not  come  to  Ekeby  to  spend  his  life  in 
amusement,  but  that,  exempt  from  the  necessity  of 
earning  his  bread,  he  might  devote  himself  wholly 
to  completing  his  great  work  on  the  Science  of 
Sciences. 

Lastly,  I  name  the  best  of  the  troop,  the  gentle 
Lovenborg,  the  man  too  good  for  this  world,  and 
who  understood  little  of  its  ways;  and  Lilliecrona, 
the  great  musician,  who  had  a  good  home  of  his 


44  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

own,  and  always  longed  to  be  there,  but  who  was 
forever  chained  to  Ekeby,  for  his  temperament  re- 
quired splendor  and  change  to  be  able  to  endure 
life. 

All  these  eleven  men  had  left  youth  behind  them, 
and  some  of  them  had  passed  middle  age;  but 
among  them  was  one  but  thirty  years  old,  in  the 
full  power  of  body  and  mind.  This  was  Gosta  Ber- 
ling,  the  cavalier  of  cavaliers,  who  in  himself  was 
a  greater  orator,  singer,  musician,  drinking  cham- 
pion, hunter,  and  gamester  than  all  the  others.  He 
had  every  cavalierly  virtue.  What  a  man  the  Lady 
of  the  manor  had  made  of  him! 

Look  at  him  mounted  on  the  speaker's  chair! 
The  darkness  hangs  from  the  ceiling  behind  him 
in  heavy  folds.  His  fair  head  shines  out  of  it  like 
the  head  of  a  young  god — the  youthful  lightbearer 
who  kindled  chaos.  He  stands  there,  slight  and 
beautiful,  on  fire  with  the  love  of  adventure.  But 
he  speaks  with  great  seriousness. 

"Brother  cavaliers,  it  draws  toward  midnight, 
our  festivity  is  well  on  its  way;  it  is  time  for  us  to 
drink  the  health  of  the  thirteenth  at  table!' 

"Dear  Gosta,"  cried  Squire  Julius,  "there  is  no 
thirteenth,  there  are  only  twelve  of  us." 

"Every year  one  man  dies  at  Ekeby,"  continued 
Gosta  with  increasing  solemnity. "  One  of  the  guests 
of  the  cavaliers'  wing  dies  —  one  of  the  joyous,  care- 
less, ever  youthful  men  die.  Well,  what  does  it  mat- 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  45 

ten?  Cavaliers  may  not  grow  old.  If  our  shaking 
hands  could  not  lift  a  glass,  our  failing  eyes  not 
distinguish  the  cards,  what  would  life  hold  for  us, 
and  what  good  are  we  in  life?  Of  the  thirteen  who 
celebrate  Christmas  Eve  in  the  forge  at  Ekeby, 
one  must  die:  but  every  year  brings  a  man  to  keep 
up  our  number,  a  man  experienced  in  all  ways  of 
amusement.  One  who  can  handle  both  the  violin 
and  the  playing-cards  must  come  and  fill  the  empty 
place.  Old  butterflies  ought  to  die  while  the  sum- 
mer sun  still  shines.  I  drink  to  the  health  of  the  thir- 
teenth!" 

"  But,  Gosta,  we  are  twelve,"  remonstrated  the 
cavaliers,  leaving  their  glasses  untouched. 

Gosta  Berlingjwhom  they  called  the  poet,  though 
he  never  wrote  any  poetry,  continued  with  unruf- 
fled calm: 

"  Brother  cavaliers,  have  you  forgotten  who  you 
are?  You  are  the  men  who  hold  joy  by  force  in 
Varmland!  You  lend  life  to  the  violin-bow,  you 
keep  the  dancing  going,  and  songs  and  amusement 
ring  through  the  land.  Your  hearts  have  learned  to 
refrain  from  gold,  your  hands  from  money.  If  you 
did  not  exist,  dancing  would  die,  summer  would  die, 
and  roses  and  song  and  card-playing,  and  in  the 
whole  of  this  blessed  land  there  would  be  nothing 
but  iron  and  foundry  proprietors.  Joy  shall  live  just 
as  long  as  you  do.  For  six  years  I  have  celebrated 
Christmas  Eve  at  Ekeby,  and  no  one  has  yet  had 


46  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

the  courage -to  drink  to  the  thirteenth!  Who  is  it 
that  is  afraid  to  die  ? ' 

"  But,  Gosta,"  they  screamed, "  when  we  are  only 
twelve,  how  can  we  drink  to  the  thirteenth?' 

Despair  was  painted  on  Gosta's  face. 

"Are  we  only  twelve?'  he  cried.  "Why,  must 
we  then  die  out  of  the  land?  Shall  we  be  but  eleven 
next  year,  and  ten  the  year  after?  Shall  our  names 
become  a  legend  and  our  company  be  annihilated? 
I  call  upon  him,  the  thirteenth,  for  I  am  here  to 
drink  his  health.  From  the  deep  of  the  sea,  from 
the  bowels  of  the  earth,  from  heaven  or  from  hell, 
I  call  upon  him  who  is  to  keep  up  the  number  of 
the  cavaliers!' 

And  there  was  a  rustling  in  the  chimney,  the  door 
of  the  smelting-furnace  was  thrown  open,  and  the 
thirteenth  appeared.  He  came  in  hairy  hide,  with 
tail  and  hoofs  and  horns  and  pointed  beard,  and  at 
sight  of  him  the  cavaliers  sprang  up  with  a  shout. 

But  in  unrestrained  glee,  Gosta  screamed,  "Be- 
hold the  thirteenth,  hurrah!' 

And  thus  he  appeared,  man's  ancient  enemy, 
appeared  to  the  foolhardy  who  were  disturbing  the 
peace  of  the  Christmas  Eve.  The  friend  of  the 
witches  who  have  signed  away  their  souls  in  blood 
on  coal-black  paper  had  come  —  he  who  had  danced 
with  the  Countess  of  Tvarsnas  for  seven  days  and 
could  not  be  exorcised  by  seven  priests. 

A  multitude  of  thoughts  stormed  through  the 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  47 

minds  of  the  old  adventurers  at  sight  of  him.  They 
probably  wondered  on  whose  account  he  was  out 
that  night. 

Some  of  them  were  inclined  to  hurry  away  in 
fear,  but  they  soon  learned  that  their  horned  friend 
had  not  come  to  fetch  away  any  of  them  to  his  dark 
kingdom.  The  clinking  sound  of  the  punch  glasses 
and  the  songs  had  tempted  him  in.  He  wished  to 
enjoy  the  sight  of  men's  happiness  on  that  holy 
Christmas  Eve,  and  to  throw  aside  the  burden  of 
his  rule  for  a  time. 

Oh,  cavaliers,  cavaliers !  which  of  you  remembers 
it  is  Christmas  Eve?  The  angels  are  singing  over  the 
shepherds  in  the  fields;  children  lie  in  their  beds 
and  fear  to  sleep  too  soundly  that  they  may  not  miss 
the  beautiful  early  morning  service.  It  is  soon  time 
to  light  the  Christmas  candles  in  the  church  at  Bro, 
and  far  away  in  the  forest  homestead  the  boys  have 
been  making  a  resinous  torch,  with  which  to  light 
their  sweethearts  to  church.  In  the  windows  of  the 
houses  the  housewives  have  placed  tiers  of  candles 
ready  for  lighting  when  the  stream  of  church-goers 
begins  to  pass.  The  sexton  starts  the  Christmas 
hymn  in  his  sleep,  and  the  old  rector  lies  in  bed  and 
tries  if  he  has  still  sufficient  voice  to  chant  "Glory  to 
God  in  the  highest,  on  earth  peace,  good  will  toward 


men.1 


Oh,  cavaliers,  it  would  have  been  better  for  you 
if  you  had  been  safe  in  your  beds  on  this  night  of 


48  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

peace  instead  of  keeping  company  with  the  Prince 
of  Darkness ! 

But  they  cried  him  welcome  as  Gosta  did.  They 
set  a  goblet  full  of  wine  in  his  hand,  they  gave  him 
the  place  of  honor  at  the  table,  and  seemed  as  glad 
to  see  him  as  if  his  ugly,  satyr-like  face  wore  the 
lovely  features  of  their  youth's  beloved. 

Beerencreutz  invited  him  to  a  game  of  camphio; 
Squire  Julius  sang  him  his  best  songs;  Orneclou 
talked  to  him  of  beautiful  women,  those  charming 
beings  who  sweeten  existence.  And  he  seemed  to 
enjoy  himself,  as  with  princely  ease  he  leaned  back 
on  the  coach-seat  of  the  old  carriage,  and  lifted  the 
brimming  goblet  in  his  claw-beweaponed  hand  to 
his  smiling  lips. 

But  Gosta  Berling,  of  course,  made  him  a  speech. 
"  Your  highness,"  he  said, "  we  have  expected  you  at 
Ekeby  for  a  long  time,  for  you  probably  have  some 
difficulty  in  gaining  access  to  any  other  paradise. 
We  live  here  without  toiling,  neither  do  we  spin, 
of  which  your  highness  is  probably  aware.  Roast 
sparrows  here  fly  into  our  mouths,  and  the  ale  and 
brandy  flow  in  streams  about  us.  This  is  a  charming 
place,  you  remark,  my  lord! 

"We  cavaliers  have  also  expected  you,  because 
our  company  has  never  really  been  complete.  You 
see  the  case  is  this — we  are  rather  more  than  we 
give  ourselves  out  to  be;  we  are  the  legendary  troop 
of  twelve  who  go  through  Time.  We  were  twelve 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  49 

when  we  steered  the  world  from  the  cloud-covered 
heights  of  Olympus,  and  twelve  when  we  lived  as 
birds  in  Ygdrasil's  green  crest.  We  follow  wher- 
ever legend  leads.  Did  we  not  sit  twelve  strong  men 
round  Arthur's  Table,  and  were  there  not  twelve 
paladins  in  the  army  of  Charles  the  Great?  One 
of  us  has  been  Thor,  one  Jupiter,  as  you  can  see 
to-day.  The  godlike  splendor  gleams  sometimes 
through  our  rags;  the  lion's  mane  shows  from 
under  the  donkey's  hide.  Time  has  used  us  badly, 
but  when  we  are  together,  even  the  forge  becomes 
Olympus,  and  the  cavaliers'  wing  a  Valhalla. 

"But,  your  highness,  we  have  not  been  com- 
plete in  number.  It  is  well  known  that  in  the  fabled 
group  of  twelve  there  is  always  a  Loki,  a  Prome- 
theus. Him  have  we  lacked!  Your  highness,  I  bid 
you  welcome!' 

"See,  see,"  said  the  wicked  one,  "such  grand 
phrases,  such  grand  phrases!  And  I  —  I  have  no 
time  to  answer.  Business,  boys,  business ! —  I  must 
be  off  at  once,  or  I  would  gladly  serve  you  in  any 
part  you  choose.  Thanks  for  to-night's  entertain- 
ment, old  fellow,  we  '11  meet  again." 

Then  the  cavaliers  inquired  where  he  was  going, 
and  he  answered  that  the  noble  Fru  Samzelius, 
the  owner  of  Ekeby,  was  waiting  to  have  her  con- 
tract renewed.  They  were  struck  dumb  with  sur- 
prise. 

She  was  a  stern  and  capable  woman,  the  Lady  of 


5o  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

Ekeby.  She  could  lift  a  sack  of  rye  on  her  broad 
shoulders.  She  accompanied  the  transport  of  ore 
all  the  way  from  the  mines  at  Bergslagen  to  Ekeby. 
She  could  sleep  like  a  carter  on  the  floor  of  the 
granary  with  a  sack  for  her  pillow.  In  the  winter 
she  sometimes  watched  the  charcoal  burning;  in 
the  summer  she  would  follow  a  timber  raft  down 
the  LofVen.  A  capable  woman  was  she.  She  swore 
like  a  trooper,  and  reigned  like  a  king  over  her 
seven  foundries  and  her  neighbors'  estates,  reigned 
over  her  own  parish  and  the  neighboring  par- 
ishes—  yea,  over  all  the  beautiful  Varmland.  But 
to  the  homeless  cavaliers  she  had  been  like  a  mo- 
ther, and  they  had  therefore  closed  their  ears  to  the 
whispers  that  told  them  she  was  in  league  with  the 
devil. 

So,  with  great  astonishment,  they  asked  him  what 
contract  she  had  made  with  him. 

And  their  horned  guest  answered  that  he  gave  the 
Major's  wife  her  seven  foundries  on  condition  that 
she  sent  him  a  man's  soul  every  year. 

Oh,  what  horror  clutched  at  the  hearts  of  the 
cavaliers !  They  knew  it,  of  course,  but  they  had 
never  realized  it.  At  Ekeby  each  year  one  of  the 
cavaliers  died  —  one  of  the  joyous,  careless,  ever 
youthful  men.  Well,  what  did  it  matter?  Cavaliers 
may  not  grow  old.  If  their  shaking  hands  could  not 
lift  a  glass,  or  their  failing  eyes  distinguish  the  cards, 
what  could  life  hold  for  them  ?  What  good  were  they 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  51 

in  life?  Old  butterflies  ought  to  die  while  the  sun 
shines. 

But  now,  only  now,  they  grasped  the  meaning  of 
it  all. 

Alas,  the  woman!  Had  she  given  them  so  many 
good  meals,  had  she  allowed  them  to  drink  her 
strong  brewed  ale  and  her  brandy,  only  that  they 
might  fall  from  the  drinking-halls  and  gaming- 
tables at  Ekeby  down  to  the  King  of  Darkness  — 
one  every  year,  one  for  every  flying  year? 

Alas,  the  woman !  the  witch !  Strong  men  had 
come  to  Ekeby,  come  thither  to  destruction.  And 
she  ruined  them  there.  Their  brains  were  like 
sponges,  their  lungs  but  dried  ashes,  their  spirits 
were  darkened  when  they  sank  back  on  their  death- 
beds and  were  ready  at  last  for  the  long  journey  — 
destitute  of  hope,  or  soul,  or  virtue. 

Alas,  the  woman !  Better  men  than  they  had  died 
like  that,  and  so,  too,  would  they  die. 

But  the  paralysis  of  fear  did  not  hold  the  cava- 
liers for  long. 

"You, Prince  of  Darkness,*' they  shouted,  "never 
again  shall  you  make  your  bloody  contract  with  that 
witch — she  shall  die.  Kristian  Bergh,  the  strong  cap- 
tain, has  flung  the  heaviest  hammer  the  forge  con- 
tains over  his  shoulder,  and  he  will  bury  it  to  the 
shaft  in  the  hag's  head.  You  will  get  no  more  souls 
from  her. 

"And  as  for  yourself,  we  will  lay  you  on  the 


52  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

anvil  and  loosen  the  great  hammer.  We  will  hold 
you  with  pincers  under  its  blows,  and  teach  you  to 
go  hunting  for  the  souls  of  cavaliers/' 

He  was  a  coward,  was  the  dark  gentleman,  as  is 
known  of  old,  and  the  talk  of  the  great  hammer  did 
not  please  him.  He  called  Kristian  Bergh  back,  and 
began  bargaining  with  the  cavaliers. 

"Take  the  seven  foundries,  cavaliers,  and  give 
me  the  Major's  wife." 

"  Do  you  think  us  as  base  as  she  is  ? "  cried  Squire 
Julius.  "We  will  take  Ekeby  and  all  the  other 
foundries,  but  you  must  manage  the  Major's  wife 
yourself." 

"  What  does  Gosta  say  ? "  asked  the  gentle  Loven- 
borg. "  Gosta  Berling  must  speak.  We  must  have  his 
opinion  on  such  an  important  subject." 

"This  is  madness!'  cried  Gosta.  "Cavaliers, 
don't  be  made  fools  of  by  him!  What  have  we 
against  the  Major's  wife?  Regarding  our  souls,  it 
must  be  as  fate  ordains ;  but  it  won't  be  with  my 
consent  that  we  are  ungrateful  wretches,  and  act  like 
rogues  and  villains.  I  have  eaten  at  her  table  for 
many  long  years,  and  will  not  desert  her  now." 

"Yes,  go  to  the  devil,  if  you  feel  inclined,  Gosta. 
We  would  rather  reign  over  Ekeby." 

"  But  are  you  raving  mad,  or  have  you  drunk 
yourselves  out  of  your  senses?  Do  you  believe  in 
all  this?  Do  you  believe  that  he  over  there  is  the 
Evil  One?  Don't  you  see  that  it  is  a  cursed  joke?' 


cc 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  53 

See,  see!"  cried  the  dark  gentleman.  "He  has 
not  noticed  that  he  is  in  a  fair  way  to  be  ready  for 
me,  and  yet  he  has  been  at  Ekeby  for  seven  years. 
He  has  not  noticed  how  far  he  has  got." 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  man  !  Did  n't  I  help  you  to  hide 
yourself  in  the  furnace  over  there?' 

"As  if  that  made  any  difference;  as  if  I  am  not 
as  good  a  devil  as  any  other.  Yes,  yes,  Gosta  Ber- 
ling,  you  are  caught.  You  have  become  a  fine  spe- 
cimen under  Fru  Samzelius'  treatment!' 

"She  saved  me;  what  am  I  without  her?"  said 
Gosta. 

"Of  course,  of  course,  just  as  if  she  had  no  pur- 
pose in  keeping  you  at  Ekeby.  You  tempt  many 
to  fall.  You  have  great  talents.  Once  you  tried  to  be 
independent;  you  let  her  give  you  a  cottage,  and 
you  became  a  workman  and  earned  your  own  bread, 
and  every  day  she  passed  the  cottage  with  a  bevy  of 
beautiful  girls  in  her  train.  Marienne  Sinclaire  was 
with  her  once,  and  then  you  threw  aside  your  apron 
and  spade,  Gosta  Berling,  and  became  a  cavalier 
again." 

"The  road  passed  that  way,  you  rascal." 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,  the  road  passed  that  way. 
Afterwards  you  went  to  Borg  to  be  tutor  to  Hen- 
rik  Dohna,  and  you  very  nearly  became  Count- 
ess Marta's  son-in-law.  Who  was  it  contrived  the 
young  Ebba  Dohna  should  hear  you  were  only  an 
outcast  parson,  and  should  say  you  nay?  It  was  the 


54  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

Major's  wife,  Gosta    Berling  —  she   wanted   you 
back." 

"What  of  it?"  said  Gosta.  "Ebba  Dohna  died 
shortly  after.  I  could  not  have  won   her  in  any 


case/ 


(C 

cc 


The  dark  gentleman  came  close  up  to  him  and 
whispered  in  his  ear. 

"Died — yea — certainly  she  died.  She  killed  her- 
self for  your  sake,  but  they  never  told  you." 

"You  are  no  bad  devil,"  said  Gosta. 

"It was  the  Major's  wife  who  arranged  it  all,  I  tell 
you.  She  wanted  you  back  in  the  cavaliers'  wing." 

Gosta  burst  into  a  loud  laugh. 

You  are  no  bad  devil,"  he  shouted  wildly. 
Why  shouldn't  we  make  a  contract  with  you? 
You  are  able  to  give  us  the  seven  foundries,  I  sup- 
pose, if  you  feel  inclined?' 

"A  good  thing  for  you  if  you  don't  fight  any 
longer  against  good  fortune." 

The  cavaliers  drew  an  easy  breath.  It  had  come  to 
such  a  pass  with  them  that  they  could  do  nothing 
without  Gosta.  If  he  had  refused  to  join  the  affair, 
nothing  would  have  come  of  it.  And  it  was  a  great 
thing  for  the  poverty-stricken  cavaliers  to  be  made 
masters  of  Ekeby. 

"  But  notice,"  said  Gosta,  "we  take  the  seven  foun- 
dries to  save  our  souls — not  for  the  sake  of  being 
rich,  prosperous  people,  who  count  their  money 
and  weigh  their  iron.  We  refuse  to  be  dried-up 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  55 

parchment  or  tied-up  money  pouches;  we  are,  and 
still  remain,  cavaliers." 

"  The  very  words  of  wisdom,"  mumbled  the  dark 
gentleman. 

"So,  if  you  give  us  the  seven  foundries  for  one 
year,  we  will  take  them ;  but  remember  this,  if  dur- 
ing that  time  we  do  anything  which  is  uncavalier- 
like,  anything  sensible  or  useful  or  effeminate,  you 
can  take  all  the  twelve  of  us,  when  the  year  is  out, 
and  give  the  foundries  to  whom  you  like." 

The  wicked  one  rubbed  his  hands  with  glee. 

"But  if  we  always  behave  like  true  cavaliers," 
continued  Gosta,  "you  must  never  again  make  any 
contract  about  Ekeby,  and  you  forfeit  your  wage  for 
this  year,  both  from  us  and  from  the  Major's  wife." 

"  That  is  hard,"  said  the  devil.  "  Oh,  dear  Gosta, 
I  ought  to  get  one  soul,  one  poor  little  soul.  I  might 
as  well  have  the  Major's  wife.  Why  do  you  spare 
her?" 

"  I  don't  buy  and  sell  such  goods,"  said  Gosta. 
"  But  if  you  must  have  some  one,  you  can  take  old 
Sintram  at  Fors;  he  is  about  ready  for  you,  I  can 
answer  for  it." 

"See,  see,  that  is  worth  mentioning,"  said  the 
dark  gentleman  without  blinking — "the  cavaliers 
against  Sintram.  It  will  be  a  good  year." 

And  so  the  contract  was  written  with  blood  taken 
from  Gosta  Berling's  little  finger,  on  black  paper 
supplied  by  the  Evil  One,  with  his  own  goose  quill. 


56  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

And  when  it  was  done,  the  cavaliers  rejoiced.  For 
a  whole  year  everything  that  the  world  contained 
would  be  theirs,  and  afterwards  there  was  always 
some  way  out  of  the  scrape. 

They  pushed  aside  their  chairs  and  formed  a  ring 
round  the  steaming  kettle  which  stood  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  floor.  In  their  midst  danced  the  Evil  One, 
leaping  high,  till  at  last  he  threw  himself  down  be- 
side the  kettle,  tilted  it  over,  and  drank. 

Then  Beerencreutz  threw  himself  down  beside 
him,  then  Gosta,  and  after  them  all  the  other  cava- 
liers, till  they  lay  in  a  ring  round  the  kettle,  which 
was  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth.  At  last  a  push 
sent  it  over,  and  the  hot,  sticky  liquid  streamed 
over  them  all. 

When,  swearing,  they  scrambled  up,  they  found 
their  dark  friend  had  disappeared,  but  his  golden 
promises  still  seemed  to  float  like  shining  crowns 
over  their  heads. 


The  Christmas  Dinner 

FRU  SAMZELIUS  celebrated  Christmas  Day  by 
giving  a  dinner-party  at  Ekeby.  She  took  her 
place  as  hostess  at  a  table  spread  for  fifty  guests, 
doing  the  honors  with  great  splendor.  The  short 
fur  jacket  and  striped  skirt  and  clay  pipe  were  cast 
aside.  She  rustled  in  silk,  her  bare  arms  were  loaded 
with  gold,  and  pearls  gleamed  on  her  white  throat. 

But  where  were  the  cavaliers?  Where  were  the 
men  who  drank  to  the  new  owners  of  Ekeby  out 
of  the  burnished  kettle  on  the  black  floor  of  the 
forge  ? 

In  the  corner  near  the  fireplace  the  cavaliers  were 
seated  at  a  separate  table;  there  was  no  room  for 
them  that  day  at  the  big  central  table.  They  were 
served  later  than  the  other  guests,  the  wine  flowed 
sparingly,  none  of  the  pretty  women  cast  a  glance 
in  their  direction,  no  one  listened  to  Gosta's  jokes. 

The  cavaliers  were  like  tamed  birds.  They  had 
had  but  an  hour's  sleep  before  they  started  to  the 
early  morning  service  at  church,  lighted  on  their  way 
by  torches  and  the  stars.  They  saw  the  Christmas 
lights,  they  heard  the  Christmas  hymns,  and  they 
became  smiling  children  again.  They  forgot  the 
Christmas  Eve  in  the  forge,  as  one  forgets  an  evil 
dream. 

The  Lady  of  Ekeby  was  a  powerful  and  great 


58  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

dame.  Who  would  dare  lift  his  arm  against  her? 
Whose  tongue  would  dare  to  bear  witness  against 
her?  Certainly  the  cavaliers  never  could,  who  for  so 
many  years  had  eaten  her  bread  and  slept  beneath 
her  roof.  She  placed  them  where  she  chose;  she 
could  exclude  them  from  her  festivity  altogether 
if  she  wished,  and  they  were  powerless.  God  bless 
them !  why,  they  could  not  exist  away  from  Ekeby  ! 

The  guests  at  the  big  table  were  enjoying  them- 
selves. Marienne  Sinclaire's  beautiful  eyes  were 
beaming,  and  you  heard  the  low  laugh  of  the  gay 
little  Countess  Dohna. 

But  the  cavaliers  were  moody.  Why  were  they 
not  with  the  other  guests?  What  was  the  meaning 
of  this  insulting  arrangement  of  the  table  in  the  fire- 
place corner?  As  if  they  were  not  fit  for  the  best 
society? 

The  hostess  sat  between  Count  Dohna  and  the 
rector  of  Bro,  while  the  cavaliers  hung  their  heads 
like  deserted  children,  and  last  night's  thoughts 
awoke  within  them.  Gay  nonsense  and  ridiculous 
sayings  were  but  shy  guests  at  the  smaller  table,  for 
the  anger  and  the  promises  of  last  night  had  entered 
the  hearts  of  the  cavaliers. 

Certainly  Squire  Julius  managed  to  convince 
Kristian  Bergh  that  the  roasted  grouse  which  were 
being  handed  round  at  the  big  table  would  not  suf- 
fice for  all  the  guests,  but  that  did  not  cause  much 
amusement. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER  59 

"  I  know  they  can't  go  round,"  he  said.  "  I  know 
how  many  there  were.  But  the  cook  was  not  at  a 
loss,  Kristian  Bergh;  they  have  roasted  crows  for 
us  at  the  little  table." 

But  Colonel  Beerencreutz's  lips  unbend  only  to 
a  faint  smile,  and  Gosta  Berling  had  looked  all  day 
as  if  he  were  considering  the  advisability  of  mur- 
dering some  one. 

"Is  n't  anything  good  enough  for  cavaliers  ? "  he 
said. 

Captain  Bergh  was  furious  Had  n't  he  cherished 
a  lifelong  hatred  for  crows,  those  abominable  caw- 
ing things?  He  hated  them  so  bitterly  that  he 
dressed  himself  in  a  woman's  fluttering  skirt  and 
tied  a  kerchief  over  his  head,  and  made  himself 
a  laughing-stock  to  every  man,  in  the  autumn,  for 
the  purpose  of  creeping  within  gunshot  of  them 
when  they  were  feeding  on  the  fresh  grain  in  the 
corn-fields. 

In  spring  he  followed  them  to  their  dances  on 
the  bare  meadows  in  mating  time  and  shot  them. 
He  sought  their  nests  in  summer,  and  destroyed 
their  half-hatched  eggs  and  the  screaming  unfeath- 
ered  young. 

He  now  clutched  the  plate  of  grouse. 

"Don't  you  think  I  recognize  them?"  he  thun- 
dered to  the  servant.  "  Do  you  suppose  I  must  hear 
them  caw  to  know  them?  The  devil  —  to  offer  Kris- 
tian Bergh  a  crow — the  devil !' 


60  COST  A  BERLING'S  SAGA 

And  taking  up  the  grouse  one  by  one  he  flung 
them  against  the  wall. 

"The  devil!"  he  shouted,  "the  devil!  to  offer 
crows  to  Kristian  Bergh ! ' 

Just  as  he  was  wont  to  throw  the  helpless  nest- 
lings against  the  cliffs  he  now  threw  the  roasted 
grouse  against  the  wall  of  the  dining-hall. 

Grease  and  gravy  flew  around  him;  the  birds 
rebounded  from  the  wall  into  the  middle  of  the 
floor.  And  the  cavaliers  rejoiced.  Then  the  angry 
voice  of  the  Lady  of  Ekeby  reached  their  ears. 

"Turn  him  out!"  she  called  to  the  servants. 

But  they  dared  not  touch  him.  After  all,  he  was 
Kristian  Bergh,  the  strong  captain. 

"Turn  him  out!" 

He  heard  the  order,  and,  terrible  in  his  anger, 
he  turned  to  her  as  a  bear  turns  from  the  fallen 
adversary  to  the  new  persecutor.  He  strode  toward 
her  table,  his  heavy  tread  shaking  the  floor,  till  he 
stood  before  her  with  only  the  end  of  the  table 
between  them. 

"Turn  him  out!"  thundered  the  Major's  wife 
again. 

But  he  was  mad;  his  furrowed  forehead  and  his 
great  clenched  fists  filled  all  with  awe.  He  was  a 
giant  in  size  and  strength.  Both  guests  and  ser- 
vants trembled  and  dared  not  touch  him  —  no  one 
dared  touch  him  when  such  rage  darkened  his 
senses. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER  61 

He  stood  before  the  Lady  of  Ekeby  and  defied 
her. 

"  I  took  the  crows  and  threw  them  against  the 
wall;  dare  you  say  I  did  wrong?' 

"Out  with  you,  Captain!' 

"Sh  —  you  woman!  —  to  offer  Kristian  Bergh 
crows  to  eat!  If  I  did  the  right  thing,  I  would  take 
you  and  your  seven  d " 

"A  thousand  devils!  Kristian  Bergh,  don't  you 
dare  to  swear!  No  one  swears  here  but  myself!' 

"Do  you  think  I  fear  you,  you  witch?  Do  you 
think  I  don't  know  how  you  got  your  seven  foun- 
dries?" 

"Silence,  Captain." 

"When  Altringer  died,  he  gave  them  to  you, 
because  he  had  been  your  lover." 

"Will  you  be  silent?" 

"  Because  you  had  been  such  a  faithful  wife,  Mar- 
garita Samzelius;  and  the  Major  took  the  gift,  and 
let  you  manage  the  foundries,  and  pretended  not 
to  understand,  and  Satan  backed  the  whole  affair — 
but  this  is  the  end  of  it." 

Margarita  Samzelius  sank  into  her  chair,  she  was 
pale  and  trembling,  and  it  was  with  a  low,  strange 
voice  she  reiterated,  "Yes,  this  is  the  end  of  it,  and 
it  is  your  work,  Kristian  Bergh ! ' 

At  that  tone  Kristian  Bergh  shivered,  his  face 
changed,  and  anxious  tears  filled  his  eyes. 

I  am  drunk,"  he  cried.  "  I  don't  know  what  I 


cc 


62  COST  A  BERLING'S  SAGA 

am  saying;  I  have  said  nothing.  Have  I  not  been 
her  dog  and  slave  for  forty  years,  her  dog  and  slave 
and  nothing  more!  She  is  Margarita  Celsingwhom 
I  Ve  served  all  my  life.  I  can  say  nothing  ill  of  her. 
What  should  I  say  of  the  beautiful  Margarita  Cel- 
sing?  I  am  the  dog  that  guards  her  door,  and  the 
slave  who  bears  her  burdens.  She  may  strike  and 
push  me  aside,  but,  you  see,  I  bear  it  in  silence.  I 
have  loved  her  for  forty  years,  how  could  I  speak 
evil  of  her? ' 

Ah,  it  was  a  wonderful  sight  to  see  him  throw 
himself  down  and  pray  forgiveness;  and,  as  she  sat 
at  the  other  side  of  the  table,  he  crawled  on  his 
knees  till  he  reached  her,  and  bent  down  to  kiss  the 
hem  of  her  skirt,  and  his  tears  wet  the  floor. 

But  not  far  from  the  Lady  of  Ekeby  sat  a  strong 
little  man.  He  had  curly  hair,  small,  squinting  eyes, 
and  aprominent  under  jaw, and  heresembled  a  bear. 
He  was  a  man  of  few  words.  He  was  Major  Sam- 
zelius. 

He  rose  when  he  heard  Kristian  Bergh's  last 
words ;  so  did  his  wife  and  all  the  fifty  guests.  The 
women  were  trembling  with  fear  of  what  was  com- 
ing, the  men  stood  helpless,  and  at  the  feet  of 
Margarita  Samzelius  lay  Captain  Kristian,  kissing 
the  hem  of  her  skirt  and  wetting  the  floor  with  his 
tears. 

The  Major's  broad  hairy  hands  clenched  slowly; 
he  lifted  his  arm  to  strike. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER  63 

But  the  woman  spoke  first — in  her  voice  lay  a 
dull  tone,  which  was  unusual. 

"  You  stole  me,"  she  cried.  "You  came  like  a  rob- 
ber and  stole  me.  They  forced  me  with  blows  and 
hard  words  to  be  your  wife.  I  have  only  served  you 
as  you  deserved." 

The  Major's  broad  fist  was  lifted;  his  wife  fell 
back  a  step  and  then  spoke  again. 

"  The  living  eel  squirmsunder  the  knife ;  awoman 
married  by  force  takes  a  lover.  Will  you  strike  me 
now  for  what  happened  twenty  years  ago?  Why 
didn't  you  strike  then?  Don't  you  remember  he 
lived  at  Ekeby  and  we  at  Sjo?  Don't  you  remember 
how  he  helped  us  in  our  poverty?  We  drove  in  his 
carnages,  we  drank  his  wine.  Did  we  hide  anything 
from  you?  Were  not  his  servants  your  servants? 
Did  not  his  gold  weigh  down  your  pockets?  Did 
you  not  take  the  seven  foundries?  Then  you  were 
silent  and  took  his  gifts.  It  was  then  you  should 
have  struck,  Berndt  Samzelius,  it  was  then!' 

Her  husband  turned  from  her  and  gazed  around 
at  all  those  present,  and  he  read  in  their  faces  that 
they  thought  her  right — that  they  all  thought  he 
had  taken  Altringer's  property  and  gifts  as  a  price 
for  his  silence. 

"I  never  knew  it,"  he  cried,  and  stamped  on  the 
floor. 

"It  is  well,  then,  that  you  should  know  it  now," 
she  interrupted,  with  a  mocking  ring  in  her  voice. 


64  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

"I  almost  feared  you  might  die  without  knowing 
it.  For  now  that  you  know  it,  I  can  talk  freely  with 
you,  who  have  been  my  lord  and  jailer.  You  may 
know  it  now,  that,  in  spite  of  you,  I  was  his  from 
whom  you  stole  me.  You  may  know  it  now,  all  you 
who  have  slandered  me." 

It  was  the  old  love  that  shone  in  her  eyes  and 
rang  in  her  voice.  She  had  her  husband  before  her, 
with  his  clenched  fist;  she  read  horror  and  contempt 
in  the  faces  around  her;  she  felt  it  to  be  the  last 
hour  of  her  power ;  but  she  could  not  help  rejoicing 
when  for  the  first  time  she  spoke  openly  of  what 
was  the  happiest  remembrance  of  her  life. 

"  He  was  a  man  —  a  splendid  man.  Who  were  you 
that  you  dared  come  between  us  ?  I  never  saw  his 
like.  He  gave  me  happiness ;  and  he  gave  me  riches. 
Blessed  be  his  memory!' 

Then  the  Major  dropped  his  arm  without  strik- 
ing; he  knew  now  how  he  would  punish  her. 

"Out,"  he  shouted,  "out  of  my  house!' 

She  stood  motionless. 

But  the  cavaliers  gazed  at  each  other  with  pale 
faces.  It  seemed  as  if  all  that  the  Evil  One  had  pro- 
phesied was  being  fulfilled.  This,  then,  was  the  re- 
sult of  the  contract  not  having  been  renewed.  If  this 
was  true,  it  must  also  be  true  that  for  more  than 
twenty  years  she  had  been  sending  cavaliers  to  hell, 
and  they  also  were  destined  for  that  journey.  Oh, 
the  wretch ! 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER  65 

"  Out  with  you ! "  screamed  the  Major. "  Beg  your 
bread  by  the  wayside,  you  shall  have  no  further  joy 
of  your  riches,  you  shall  have  no  dwelling  in  his 
houses !  It  is  the  end  of  the  Lady  of  Ekeby,  and  the 
day  you  set  your  foot  within  my  house  I  will  kill 
you!' 

"You  turn  me  out  of  my  own  home?' 

"You  have  no  home  —  Ekeby  is  mine." 

A  feeling  of  helplessness  came  over  her,  and  she 
fell  back  to  the  threshold,  the  Major  following  her 
closely. 

"You,  who  have  been  the  unhappiness  of  my 
life,  are  you  to  have  the  power  to  treat  me  so? "  she 
wailed. 

"Out— out!" 

She  leaned  against  the  door-post,  clasped  her 
hands,  and  hid  her  eyes.  She  was  thinking  of  her 
mother,  and  whispered  to  herself: 

"  May  you  be  denied  as  I've  been  denied,  may 
the  roadside  be  your  home,  and  the  strawstack  be 
your  bed!'  So  it  had  come  to  pass  —  so  it  had 
come. 

It  was  the  good  old  rector  from  Bro  and  the  Judge 
from  Munkerud  who  came  forward  and  tried  to 
calm  Major  Samzelius.  They  said  he  would  do  wis- 
est in  letting  all  old  stories  die,  let  things  be  as  they 
were,  forget  and  forgive.  But  he  shook  aside  the 
friendly  hands  from  his  shoulders.  He  was  as  terri- 
ble to  cross  as  was  Kristian  Bergh. 


66  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

"It  is  no  old  story,"  he  cried.  "I  knew  it  not  till 
to-day ;  I  could  not  punish  her  unfaithfulness  be- 
fore." 

At  that  his  wife  lifted  her  head  and  regained  her 
old  courage. 

"  You  shall  go  before  I  do.  Do  you  imagine  I  fear 
you?"  she  said,  and  came  forward  again. 

The  Major  did  not  answer  her,  but  he  watched 
her  every  movement,  ready  to  strike  her  down  if 
he  could  not  be  quit  of  her  in  any  other  way. 

"Help  me,  good  gentlemen!"  she  cried;  "help 
me  to  get  this  man  bound  and  taken  away  till  he 
regains  the  use  of  his  senses.  Remember  who  I  am 
—  and  who  he  is.  Think  of  it  before  I  am  obliged  to 
yield  to  him.  I  manage  all  Ekeby,  and  he  sits  feed- 
ing his  bears  all  day  in  their  bear-hole.  Help  me, 
my  good  neighbors!  There  will  be  terrible  misery 
here  if  I  leave  you.  The  peasant  earns  his  livelihood 
by  cutting  my  forests  and  carrying  my  ore.  The 
colliers  live  by  providing  me  with  coal,  and  the  lum- 
bermen steer  my  rafts,  /give  the  work  which  brings 
them  riches.  The  ironsmiths  and  carpenters  and  day 
laborers  all  live  by  serving  me.  Do  you  think  that 
man  can  hold  my  work  in  hand?  I  tell  you  that  if 
you  send  me  away,  you  bring  down  famine  upon 
yourselves." 

Again  hands  were  raised  in  help,  again  an  attempt 
was  made  to  pacify  the  Major. 

"No,"  he  screamed,  "out  with  her!  Who  dares 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER  67 

justify  a  faithless  wife?  I  tell  you,  if  she  does  not 
go  voluntarily,  I  will  lift  her  up  and  carry  her  to 
my  wild  bears." 

Then,  in  her  great  distress,  the  Lady  of  Ekeby 
turned  to  the  cavaliers. 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  be  driven  from  my  home, 
cavaliers?  Have  I  let  you  freeze  in  winter?  Have 
I  refused  you  wine  and  ale?  Did  I  require  work 
from  your  hands  because  I  gave  you  food  and  cloth- 
ing? Have  you  not  enjoyed  yourselves  at  my  side 
as  trustfully  as  children?  Have  you  not  danced 
through  my  halls,  and  have  not  gaiety  and  laughter 
been  your  daily  bread?  Don't  let  this  man  who  has 
been  the  great  unhappiness  of  my  life,  don't  let  him 
drive  me  from  my  home,  cavaliers!  Don't  send  me 
to  be  a  beggar  by  the  wayside!' 

During  these  words  Gosta  Berling  made  his  way 
to  a  lovely  dark-haired  girl  who  was  sitting  at  the 
big  table. 

"  You  were  often  at  Borg  five  years  ago,  Anna," 
he  said.  "Tell  me,  was  it  the  Major's  wife  who  told 
Ebba  that  I  was  an  unfrocked  clergyman?' 

"Help  her,  Gosta,"  the  girl  answered. 

"You  can  understand,  I  suppose,  that  I  wish  to 
know  first  if  she  made  a  murderer  of  me?' 

"Oh,  Gosta,  what  terrible  thoughts!  Help  her, 
Gosta." 

"You  won't  answer  me,  I  see  —  then  Sintram 
told  the  truth." 


68  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

And  Gosta  went  back  to  the  cavaliers,  and  would 
not  lift  a  finger  to  help  Margarita  Samzelius. 

Oh!  if  she  had  not  placed  the  cavaliers  at  a  sepa- 
rate table  in  the  chimney-corner,  for  the  thoughts 
of  last  night  are  astir  in  their  hearts,  and  their  faces 
burn  with  anger  hardly  less  than  the  Major's !  Mer- 
cilessly they  stand  aloof  during  her  pleading.  Every- 
thing they  saw  emphasized  the  facts  they  had  learned 
last  night. 

"One  can  see  she  did  not  get  her  contract  re- 
newed," muttered  one  of  them.  "Go  to  hell,  you 
witch!"  screamed  another.  "We  ought  by  right  to 
turn  you  out/' 

"You  scoundrels ! "  shouted  weak  old  Uncle  Eb- 
erhard  to  the  cavaliers;  "don't  you  understand  it 
was  Sintram?' 

"  Of  course  we  know,"  answered  Julius, "  but  what 
of  that?  Can't  it  be  true  in  spite  of  that?  Doesn't 
he  do  the  work  of  the  Evil  One?  Don't  they  under- 
stand one  another  well?' 

"You  go,  Eberhard,  you  go  and  help  her — you 
don't  believe  in  hell,"  they  cried,  mockingly. 

And  Gosta  Berling  stood  motionless,  without 
word  or  movement. 

No  —  out  of  that  screaming,  threatening,  mut- 
tering crowd  of  cavaliers  she  could  get  no  help. 

She  turned  again  to  the  door,  and  lifted  her 
clasped  hands  to  her  eyes. 

"  May  you  be  denied  as  I  am  denied ! "  she  cried, 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER  69 

in  her  bitter  sorrow.  "May  the  wayside  be  your 
home,  and  the  strawstack  be  your  bed ! "  And  she 
laid  one  hand  on  the  door-handle,  and  lifted  the 
other  on  high. 

"Mark  you  —  you  who  have  beheld  my  down- 
fall— mark  that  your  hour  is  coming  soon.  You 
shall  be  cast  abroad,  and  your  place  shall  be  empty. 
How  will  you  stand  where  I  do  not  support  you? 
You,  Melchior  Sinclaire,  you  have  a  heavy  hand, 
and  you  let  your  wife  feel  it  —  take  care!  You,  par- 
son of  Broby,  the  punishment  is  coming!  Madame 
Uggla,  look  to  your  home,  poverty  is  at  its  doors ! 
You  beautiful  women,  Elizabeth  Dohna,  Marienne 
Sinclaire,  Anna  Stjarnhok,  don't  think  I  shall  be  the 
only  one  to  fly  from  my  home !  Be  on  your  guard, 
cavaliers,  a  storm  is  rising,  and  you  will  be  swept 
away — your  day  is  now  past — yes,  forever  past!  I 
do  not  mourn  for  myself,  but  for  you,  for  the  storm 
will  go  over  your  heads,  and  who  can  stand  when 
I  fall?  Oh,  my  heart  is  heavy  for  the  sake  of  the 
people!  Who  will  give  them  work  when  I  am 
gone?' 

She  opened  the  door,  and  then  Kristian  Bergh 
lifted  his  head  and  said,  "How  long  must  I  lie  here 
at  your  feet,  Margarita  Celsing?  Will  you  not  for- 
give me,  that  I  may  rise  and  fight  for  you?' 

It  was  a  hard  struggle  the  Major's  wife  had  with 
herself,  for  she  knew  that  if  she  forgave  him,  he 
would  fight  her  husband,  and  the  man  who  had 


70  COST  A  BERLING'S  SAGA 

loved  her  faithfully  for  forty  years  would  probably 
be  a  murderer. 

"Am  I  also  to  forgive?"  she  said.  "Are  you  not 
the  cause  of  all  this  trouble,  Kristian  Bergh?  Go  to 
the  cavaliers  and  rejoice  at  your  work!' 

And  so  she  left  them.  She  went  calmly,  leaving 
terror  behind  her;  she  fell,  but  she  was  not  without 
greatness  in  her  fall.  She  did  not  stoop  to  weak  re- 
pining, but  even  in  her  old  age  she  rejoiced  in  the 
love  of  her  youth.  She  did  not  stoop  to  wailing  and 
tears  when  she  left  all  behind  her,  and  did  not  shrink 
from  wandering  through  the  land  with  a  beggar's 
scrip  and  staff.  She  mourned  over  the  poor  and  the 
happy,  careless  people  on  the  banks  of  the  Lofven, 
over  the  cavaliers,  and  all  those  whom  she  had  pro- 
tected and  guarded.  Deserted  by  every  one,  she  had 
still  strength  to  turn  aside  from  hej  last  friend,  so 
as  not  to  condemn  him  to  being  a  murderer. 

She  was  a  powerful  woman,  great  in  strength 
of  will  and  mighty  in  government.  We  shall  hardly 
see  another  like  her. 

Next  day  Major  Samzelius  broke  up  his  home 
at  Ekeby,and  moved  to  his  own  house  at  Sjo, which 
lies  quite  near  the  great  foundry. 

It  had  been  plainly  stated  in  Altringer's  will,  by 
which  the  Major  had  received  the  huge  property  of 
the  seven  foundries,  that  none  of  them  were  to  be 
sold  or  given  away,  but  after  the  death  of  the  Major 
they  were  to  pass  to  his  wife  and  her  heirs.  As,  there- 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER  71 

fore,  he  could  not  destroy  the  hated  gift,  he  gave  it 
into  the  hands  of  the  cavaliers,  thinking  their  bad 
management  would  do  Ekeby  and  the  other  foun-  *-> 
dries  the  greatest  harm. 

And  as  no  one  in  the  land  doubted  that  Sintram 
worked  the  will  of  his  evil  master,  and  as  all  his 
promises  to  the  cavaliers  had  been  so  strangely  ful- 
filled, they  were  all  sure  that  the  contract  he  had 
made  with  them  would  be  carried  out  to  the  small- 
est detail,  and  they  were  determined  to  do  nothing 
sensible  or  practical  or  uncavalier-like,  and  they 
were  also  quite  convinced  that  the  Major's  wife  was 
an  abominable  witch  who  had  plotted  their  ruin. 

Old  Uncle  Eberhard,  the  philosopher,madegame 
of  their  belief,  but  who  cared  what  such  a  man  as 
Uncle  Eberhard  said  —  he  was  so  obstinate  himself 
in  his  beliefs  that  if  he  had  stood  in  the  midst  of 
the  fires  of  hell,  and  had  seen  all  the  devils  grinning 
at  him,  he  would  still  have  said  they  were  not  there, 
because  it  was  impossible  that  they  should  exist. 
Uncle  Eberhard  was  a  great  philosopher. 

Gosta  Berling  told  no  one  what  he  thought.  He 
certainly  felt  he  had  little  cause  to  thank  the  Ma- 
jor's wife  for  making  him  an  Ekeby  cavalier,  for  it 
now  seemed  better  to  him  to  be  dead  than  to  know 
he  had  been  the  cause  of  Ebba  Dohna's  suicide. 
He  lifted  no  hand  in  vengeance  against  the  Ma- 
jor's wife,  but  neither  would  he  help  her.  He  could 
not.  But  the  cavaliers  had  come  to  great  power  and 


72  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

splendor.  Christmas  was  at  hand  with  its  fetes  and 
its  pleasures;  their  hearts  were  full  of  joy,  and,  if 
any  sorrow  hung  over  Gosta  Berling,  he  did  not 
bear  it  in  his  face  or  on  his  lips. 


Cjdsta  Her/ing 

IT  was  Christmas,  and  a  ball  was  to  be  given  at 
Borg.  At  that  time — and  it  must  be  nearly  sixty 
years  ago  —  young  Count  Dohna  lived  at  Borg.  He 
was  newly  married,  and  his  countess  was  both  young 
and  beautiful.  Gay  times  were  in  store  for  the  old 
estate. 

Invitations  had  also  come  to  Ekeby;  but  of  all 
the  cavaliers  who  were  spending  Christmas  there, 
Gosta  Berling,  the  poet,  as  they  called  him,  was  the 
only  one  who  was  inclined  to  accept. 

Borg  and  Ekeby  lie  on  opposite  shores  of  the 
narrow  Lofven  Lake — Borg  is  in  Svartsjo  parish, 
Ekeby  in  Bro — and  when  the  lake  is  frozen,  it  is 
only  a  dozen  miles  from  one  estate  to  the  other. 

The  penniless  Gosta  Berling  was  fitted  out  by 
the  old  cavaliers  for  this  festivity  as  if  he  were  a 
king's  son  who  upheld  the  honor  of  the  kingdom. 
His  coat  with  its  shining  gold  buttons  was  new,  his 
cambric  frills  were  finely  starched,  his  patent  leather 
shoes  shone.  His  overcoat  was  lined  with  the  finest 
beaver,  and  a  cap  of  sable  fur  covered  his  fair,  curly 
head.  They  spread  a  bearskin  with  silver  claws  over 
his  racing  sledge,  and  he  was  to  drive  black  Don 
Juan,  the  pride  of  the  stable. 

He  whistled  to  Tankred,  his  white  hound,  and, 
snatching  up  the  reins,  drove  away  gaily,  carry- 


74  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

ing  with  him  an  atmosphere  of  wealth  and  splen- 
dor. 

It  was  early  when  he  started.  It  was  Sunday,  and 
he  heard  the  psalms  being  sung  as  he  passed  Bro 
Church.  Afterwards  he  turned  into  the  lonely  forest 
road  that  led  to  Berga,  Captain  Uggla's  home,  where 
he  intended  to  stop  and  dine. 

Berga  was  not  a  rich  man's  house.  Hunger  knew 
the  way  to  the  Captain's  thatch-covered  dwelling, 
but  he  was  received  with  jokes  and  laughter  and 
entertainment,  with  song,  as  all  other  guests  were, 
and  he  left  as  unwillingly  as  they  did. 

Old  Mamsell  Ulrika  Dillner  stood  on  the  steps 
to  welcome  Gosta  as  he  drove  up.  She  was  the  house- 
keeper and  managed  the  weaving-looms,  and,  as  she 
curtsied  to  him,  the  false  curls  which  hung  round 
her  brown  old  face  danced  with  delight.  She  carried 
him  off  to  the  parlor,  and  poured  forth  the  story 
of  the  changes  and  chances  of  the  house  and  its 
inmates. 

Trouble  was  at  the  door;  hard  times  reigned  at 
Berga.  They  had  no  horse-radish,  even,  to  eat  with 
their  salt  meat,  and  Ferdinand  and  the  girls  had 
yoked  old  Disa  to  a  sledge  and  gone  off  to  Mun- 
kerud  to  borrow  some.  The  Captain  was  out  shoot- 
ing, and  would  probably  bring  home  some  tough 
old  hare  which  required  more  butter  in  the  cook- 
ing than  it  was  worth.  This  was  what  he  considered 
"  provisioning  the  family ' ' !  But,  anyway,  it  was  bet- 


GOSTA  BERLING— POET  75 

ter  than  returning  with  a  wretched  fox  —  the  worst 
animal  created,  useless  both  living  and  dead. 

And  Fru  Uggla?  She  had  not  left  her  room  yet. 
She  was  in  bed  reading  a  novel,  as  she  did  every 
morning.  An  angel,  such  as  she  was,  could  not  be 
expected  to  do  any  work. 

No,  that  must  be  done  by  those  who  are  old  and 
grey  like  Mamsell  Ulrika.  Day  and  night  she  was 
on  her  feet  trying  to  keep  things  together.  It  was  no 
easy  task;  it  was  but  the  truth  that  they  had  had 
no  meat  but  bear  hams  all  the  winter.  She  certainly 
expected  no  great  wages — she  had  seen  none  as  yet 
—  but  they  would  not  turn  her  out  when  she  grew 
too  old  to  earn  her  bread.  Even  a  housekeeper  was 
considered  a  human  being  here,  and  they  would 
certainly  give  old  Ulrika  a  decent  funeral  when  the 
time  came,  if  there  was  any  money  with  which  to 
buy  a  coffin. 

"For  no  one  can  say  what  may  happen,"  she 
said,  drying  her  eyes,  which  always  overflowed  so 
easily.  "We  are  in  debt  to  that  wicked  Sintram, 
and  he  can  sell  us  up  any  day.  True,  Ferdinand  is 
now  engaged  to  Anna  Stjarnhok,  and  she  is  rich, 
but  she  will  very  soon  tire  of  him.  And  then  what 
is  to  become  of  us  and  our  three  cows  and  nine 
horses,  our  light-hearted  girls  who  only  think  of 
going  from  one  ball  to  another,  our  fields  where 
nothing  grows,  our  kind,  good-natured  Ferdinand 
who  never  will  be  quite  a  man?  What  will  become 


76  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

of  this  whole  blessed  house,  where  everything  ex- 
cept work  thrives  so  contentedly  ? ' 

But  the  dinner-hour  came,  and  the  family  assem- 
bled. Ferdinand,  the  quiet  son  of  the  house,  and  his 
sisters  arrived  with  the  borrowed  horse-radish.  The 
Captain,  coming  home  from  his  shooting,  had  taken 
a  dip  in  the  ice-covered  river,  and  came  in  hearty 
and  strong,  wrung  Gosta's  hand,  and  threw  up  the 
windows  to  let  in  the  fresh  air.  Fru  Uggla  appeared, 
dressed  in  silk,  with  wide  lace  falling  over  the  white 
hands  which  Gosta  was  allowed  to  kiss. 

They  all  welcomed  him  gladly,  jokes  passed 
from  one  to  the  other,  and  they  laughingly  teased 
him. 

"Well,  how  are  you  all  at  Ekeby — how  do  you 
like  the  promised  land?* 

"It  flows  with  milk  and  honey,"  he  answered. 
"  We  empty  the  mountains  of  their  iron,  and  fill  our 
cellars  with  wine.  The  fields  bear  gold  with  which 
we  gild  life's  misery,  and  we  fell  our  forests  to  build 
pavilions  and  skittle-alleys." 

But  Fru  Uggla  sighed  and  smiled,  and  one  word 
escaped  her  lips  —  "Poet." 

"There  are  many  sins  on  my  conscience,"  an- 
swered Gosta,  "  but  I  Ve  never  written  a  line  of 
poetry." 

"But  still  you  are  a  poet,  Gosta — you  can't  rid 
yourself  of  that  name.  You  have  lived  through  more 
poems  than  our  poets  have  ever  written." 


GOSTA  BERLING  — POET  77 

And  later,  the  Captain's  wife  spoke  to  him,  mildly 
as  a  mother,  about  his  wilfully  wasted  life.  "  May  I 
live  to  see  you  become  a  man,"  she  said;  and  Gosta 
felt  the  sweetness  of  being  reproached  by  this  gentle 
woman,  who  was  his  faithful  friend,  whose  romantic 
heart  was  fired  by  the  love  of  great  deeds. 

But  when  the  merry  meal  was  over,  the  cabbages 
and  fritters,  the  horse-radish  and  Christmas  ale  en- 
joyed, and  Gosta  had  made  them  laugh  and  cry  with 
his  tales  of  the  Major  and  his  wife  and  the  Broby 
parson,  sleigh-bells  were  heard  in  the  yard,  and  a 
moment  later  Sintram  entered  the  room. 

He  shone  with  satisfaction  from  the  top  of  his 
bald  head  down  to  his  long,  flat  feet.  He  swung  his 
arms,  and  made  such  grimaces,  it  was  evident  he 
brought  bad  news. 

"  Have  you  heard,"  he  cried, — "  have  you  heard 
that  the  banns  were  called  to-day  at  Svartsjo  Church 
for  Anna  Stjarnhok  and  rich  old  Dahlberg?  She 
must  have  forgotten  that  she  was  engaged  to  Fer- 
dinand!" 

No,  they  had  not  heard ;  they  were  all  astonished 
and  grieved.  They  already  saw  their  home  ravaged 
to  pay  the  debt  due  to  their  cruel  neighbor,  their 
dearly  loved  horses  sold,  even  the  poor  furniture 
which  had  come  to  them  from  their  mother's  old 
home.  Their  life  of  festivity  and  balls  was  over  now 
—  they  must  eat  bear-meat  again,  and  the  young 
people  must  seek  work  among  strangers. 


78  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

Fru  Uggla  caressed  Ferdinand,  and  let  him  feel 
the  comfort  of  a  never-failing  love. 

And  the  unconquerable  Gosta  Berling  sat  there 
among  them  with  a  thousand  schemes  surging  in  his 
brain. 

"Listen,"  he  cried;  "this  isn't  the  time  for 
mourning.  It  is  the  parson's  wife  down  at  Svartsjo 
who  has  arranged  it  all.  She  has  great  influence  over 
Anna  since  she  has  been  living  with  her  at  the  par- 
sonage. It  is  she  who  has  persuaded  her  to  give  up 
Ferdinand  and  take  old  Dahlberg;  but  they  are  not 
married  yet,  nor  ever  shall  be.  I  am  going  to  Borg; 
I  will  meet  Anna  there  and  talk  to  her.  I  will  carry 
her  away  from  the  parsonage  and  old  Dahlberg. 
I  will  bring  her  here  to-night,  and  then  he  will  not 
see  much  more  of  her." 

So  it  was  decided.  Gosta  drove  alone  to  Borg, 
instead  of  taking  one  of  the  girls  with  him,  but  the 
best  wishes  of  all  followed  him  on  his  way.  Sintram, 
rejoicing  that  old  Dahlberg  was  to  be  outwitted, 
determined  to  remain  where  he  was  and  see  Gosta 
return  with  the  faithless  beauty.  In  a  sudden  out- 
burst of  kindness  he  even  wrapped  about  Gosta 
his  green  travelling-rug — a  present  given  him  by 
Mamsell  Ulrika. 

But  Fru  Uggla  came  out  on  the  steps  with  three 
small  red  bound  books  in  her  hand.  "Take  them," 
she  said  to  Gosta,  who  was  already  seated  in  his 
sledge.  "Take  and  keep  them  in  case  you  fail.  It  is 


GOSTA  BERLING— POET  79 

Corinne,  Madame  de  StaeTs  Corinne.  I  don't  wish 
it  to  be  sold  at  auction." 

"I  won't  fail." 

"Oh,  Gosta,  Gosta!'  she  said,  and  passed  her 
hand  over  his  uncovered  head.  "You  strongest  and 
weakest  of  men  !  For  how  long  will  you  remember 
that  the  happiness  of  these  poor  people  lies  in  your 
hands?" 

Drawn  by  black  Don  Juan  and  followed  by  Tan- 
kred,  Gosta  again  flew  along  the  highway,  the  spirit 
of  adventure  flooding  his  soul.  He  felt  himself 
a  conqueror,  borne  forward  by  enthusiasm.  The 
road  took  him  past  the  parsonage  at  Svartsjo.  He 
drove  through  the  gate  and  asked  if  he  might  drive 
Anna  Stjarnhok  to  the  ball,  and  she  consented. 
It  was  a  lovely,  self-willed  girl  who  took  her  seat 
beside  him.  Who  would  not  gladly  ride  behind  Don 
Juan? 

The  young  people  were  silent  at  first;  then  Anna 
opened  the  conversation  —  defiantly,  as  usual.  "I 
suppose  you  heard  what  the  pastor  gave  out  in 
church  to-day?' 

"  Did  he  say  you  were  the  loveliest  girl  between 
Lofven  and  Klaralfven?' 

"How  stupid  you  are!  People  knew  that  with- 
out his  telling  them.  He  published  the  banns  for 
me  and  old  Dahlberg." 

"It  is  hardly  likely  I  should  have  asked  you  to 
drive  with  me  if  I  had  known.' 


80  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

And  Anna  carelessly  answered,  "I  daresay  I 
could  have  done  without  you,  Gosta  Berling." 

"  But  it  is  a  great  pity,  Anna/'  Gosta  said,  thought- 
fully," that  your  parents  are  not  living.  Now  you  do 
what  you  like,  and  no  one  can  depend  on  you." 

"It  is  a  greater  pity  you  did  not  say  so  before; 
some  one  else  could  have  driven  me  to  the  ball." 

"The  parson's  wife  must  be  of  my  opinion,  that 
you  require  some  one  to  take  your  father's  place, 
or  she  would  not  have  paired  you  off  with  an  old 
creature  like  Dahlberg." 

"The  parson's  wife  had  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"Dear  me!  was  he  really  your  own  choice?' 

"He  is  not  marrying  me  for  my  money." 

"  No,  of  course  not;  it  is  only  blue  eyes  and  rosy 
cheeks  that  old  men  run  after,  and  it  becomes  them 
finely." 

"Gosta,  are  n't  you  ashamed  of  yourself  ?" 

"Well,  you  must  remember  now  that  you  have 
nothing  further  to  do  with  young  men.  There  will 
be  an  end  now  to  your  dancing  and  amusements. 
Your  place  will  be  on  the  sofa-corner,  or  perhaps 
you  mean  to  play  cribbage  with  your  old  man?" 

They  were  silent  after  this,  till  they  began  the 
steep  ascent  to  Borg  Hall. 

"Thanks  for  your  trouble!  It  will  be  some  time 
before  I  sleigh  again  with  Gosta  Berling,"  said 
Anna. 

"Thanks  for  that  promise!  There  are  many,  I 


GOSTA  BERLING— POET  81 

know,  who  have  repented  the  day  they  ever  went 
sleighing  with  you." 

It  was  in  no  mild  frame  of  mind  that  the  defiant 
beauty  entered  the  ball-room  and  glanced  over  the 
assembled  guests.  The  first  she  saw  was  Dahlberg, 
small  and  bald,  standing  by  the  side  of  the  tall, 
slight,  fair-haired  Gosta.  She  felt  she  could  have 
turned  them  both  out  of  the  room. 

Dahlberg  came  and  invited  her  to  dance — to  be 
met  with  cutting  astonishment. 

"Are  you  going  to  dance?  You  don't  usually 
do  so!" 

Her  girl  friends  came  forward  to  congratulate 
her. 

"Don't  pretend,  girls;  you  know  very  well  no 
one  could  fall  in  love  with  old  Dahlberg.  We  are 
both  rich,  and  it  is  therefore  a  suitable  match." 

The  matrons  pressed  her  hand  and  spoke  of  life's 
greatest  happiness. 

"Congratulate  the  pastor's  wife,"  she  said.  "She 
is  more  delighted  about  it  than  I  am." 

There  stood  Gosta  Berling,  the  gay  cavalier,  wel- 
comed by  all  for  his  bright  smile  and  his  ready 
speech,  which  strewed  gold-dust  over  life's  grey  way. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  never  really  seen  him 
before.  He  was  no  outcast,  no  homeless  jester — he 
was  a  king  among  men,  a  born  king. 

Gosta  and  the  other  young  men  made  a  compact 
against  her;  she  must  be  taught  the  wrong  she  did 


82  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

in  giving  herself,  with  lovely  face  and  great  wealth, 
to  an  old  man.  And  they  let  her  sit  out  ten  dances. 

She  was  furious. 

At  the  eleventh  dance  a  man  of  the  most  insig- 
nificant appearance,  one  with  whom  no  one  else 
cared  to  dance,  approached  her  and  invited  her  to 
waltz. 

"As  the  bread  is  finished,  the  crusts  must  be 
brought  on  the  table,"  she  said. 

Then  they  played  forfeits.  Fair-haired  girls  put 
their  heads  together  and  sentenced  her  to  kiss  the 
one  she  loved  the  best,  waiting,  with  covert  smiles, 
to  see  the  proud  beauty  kiss  old  Dahlberg. 

But  she  rose,  stately  in  her  anger,  and  said, "  Shall 
I  not  rather  box  the  ears  of  him  I  love  the  least? ' 

And  the  next  moment  Gosta's  cheek  burned  from 
the  stroke  of  her  firm  hand. 

He  flushed  red,  controlling  himself,  caught  her 
hand,  and  holding  it  fast  a  moment,  whispered, 
"  Meet  me  in  the  red  drawing-room  downstairs  in 
.half  an  hour/5 

His  blue  eyes  held  her  in  magic  fetters;  she  felt 
she  must  obey. 

She  met  him  there,  proud  and  angry. 

"What  concern  is  it  of  yours,  Gosta  Berling, 
whom  I  marry?' 

He  could  not  speak  kindly  to  her  yet,  nor  did  he 
think  it  good  policy  to  mention  Ferdinand  at  once. 

"To  sit  out  ten  dances  seems  to  me  a  light  pen- 


GOSTA  BERLING— POET  83 

ance,  but  you  want  to  break  your  promise  without 
being  censured?  If  a  better  man  than  I  had  passed 
sentence,  it  would  have  been  severer." 

"What  have  I  done  to  you  all  that  you  cannot 
leave  me  in  peace?  It  is  because  I  have  money  that 
you  persecute  me  so.  I  will  throw  it  into  the  Lofven, 
and  who  likes  can  fish  it  up." 

She  hid  her  eyes  in  her  hands  and  cried  with  vex- 
ation. 

This  touched  him ;  he  felt  ashamed  of  his  sever- 
ity, and  his  voice  grew  caressing  as  he  continued: 

"Oh,  child,  forgive  me,  forgive  poor  Gosta  Ber- 
ling!  You  know  very  well  that  no  one  minds  what 
I  say  or  do!  Who  cares  for  such  a  wretch  as  I  am? 
Who  cares  for  my  anger?  You  might  as  well  cry 
over  a  gnat-bite!  I  was  mad,  but  I  wished  to  hinder 
our  most  beautiful  and  richest  girl  from  marrying 
an  old  man.  And  now  I  have  only  hurt  you." 

He  sat  down  on  the  sofa  beside  her,  and  put  his 
arms  round  her,  trying  to  support  and  raise  her. 

She  did  not  draw  back;  she  turned  to  him,  and 
throwing  her  arms  round  his  neck,  wept,  with  her 
lovely  head  on  his  shoulder. 

Ah,  poet — strongest  and  weakest  of  men  —  it 
was  not  about  your  neck  those  arms  should  rest. 

"  If  I  had  known  this,"  she  whispered, "  I  would 
never  have  consented  to  marry  old  Dahlberg.  I  have 
seen  you  for  the  first  time  to-day,  and  there  is  none 
like  you." 


84  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

Through  white  lips  Gosta  whispered,  "Ferdi- 
nand." 

She  silenced  him  with  a  kiss. 

"He  is  nothing — no  one  exists  but  you.  I  shall 
be  faithful  to  you  alone." 

"I  am  Gosta  Berling,"  he  answered,  gloomily; 
"you  cannot  marry  me." 

"It  is  you  I  love — you,  the  noblest  of  men.  You 
need  do  nothing,  be  nothing,  you  are  born  a  king." 

The  poet's  blood  in  him  surged.  She  was  so  en- 
chanting in  her  love,  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms. 

"If  you  will  be  mine,  Anna,  you  cannot  stay  at 
the  parsonage.  Let  me  carry  you  away  to-night  to 
Ekeby,  and  I  will  guard  you  there  till  we  can  be 
married." 

«••*•««•« 

It  was  a  wild  drive  through  the  night.  Prompted 
by  the  voice  of  their  love  they  let  Don  Juan  carry 
them  away.  The  creaking  of  the  sledge  runners 
might  have  been  the  cries  of  their  deceived  friends, 
what  cared  they?  She  clung  to  him,  and  he  bent 
down  and  whispered  in  her  ear,  "Can  any  bliss  be 
likened  to  stolen  happiness?' 

Who  thought  of  the  banns — they  had  love — 
and  of  the  anger  of  their  friends?  Gosta  Berling 
believed  in  fate.  Fate  had  mastered  them  —  no  one 
could  fight  against  fate. 

If  the  stars  had  been  the  wax  candles  lighted  for 


GOSTA  BERLING  — POET  85 

her  wedding,  if  the  sleigh-bells  had  been  the  church 
chimes  calling  the  neighbors  to  witness  her  union 
with  old  Dahlberg,  still  she  must  have  eloped  with 
Gosta  Berling,  so  powerful  is  fate. 

They  had  passed  the  parsonage  and  Munkerud. 
They  had  about  two  miles  before  them  to  Berga, 
and  then  two  again  to  Ekeby.  The  road  followed 
the  edge  of  the  wood,  and  to  the  right  of  them  lay 
dark  mountains,  to  the  left  a  long  white  valley. 

Suddenly  Tankred  rushed  after  the  sledge  wildly. 
He  seemed  to  lie  at  full  stretch  upon  the  ground, 
he  passed  over  it  so  quickly,  and  shuddering  with 
fear  he  leaped  into  the  sledge  and  crouched  at  Anna's 
feet. 

Don  Juan  started  and  broke  into  a  gallop. 

"Wolves,"  said  Gosta. 

They  saw  a  long  grey  line  following  them  near 
the  fence.  There  were  at  least  a  dozen  wolves. 

Anna  was  not  afraid.  The  day  had  been  full  of 
adventure,  the  night  promised  to  be  the  same.  That 
was  life — to  speed  over  the  sparkling  snow,  defiant 
of  men  and  beasts. 

Gosta  swore,  bent  forward,  and  brought  the  whip 
heavily  over  Don  Juan. 

"Are  you  afraid?"  she  asked. 

"They  are  taking  a  short  cut  to  that  corner  and 
will  meet  us  where  the  road  turns." 

Don  Juan  was  putting  forth  all  his  speed  in  the 
race  with  the  wild  beasts,  and  Tankred  howled  in 


86  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

mingled  fear  and  rage.  They  reached  the  turning  at 
the  same  time  as  the  wolves,  and  Gosta  drove  off 
the  foremost  with  his  whip. 

"  Ah,  Don  Juan,  my  boy,  how  easily  you  would 
outstrip  your  pursuers  if  you  had  not  to  carry  us 
with  you!' 

They  fastened  the  green  travelling-rug  behind 
the  sledge.  The  wolves  were  frightened,  and  kept 
at  a  distance  for  a  short  time,  but  they  soon  con- 
quered their  fear,  and  one  of  them  sprang  with  pant- 
ing open  jaws  at  the  sledge,  and  Gosta  flung  Ma- 
dame de  StaeTs  Corinne  down  its  throat. 

Again  they  had  a  moment's  respite  while  this 
booty  was  devoured,  but  soon  the  wolves  began  to 
tear  at  the  rug,  their  quick  breathing  was  heard  be- 
hind. They  knew  there  was  no  shelter  to  be  hoped 
for  before  they  reached  Berga,  but  worse  than 
death  itself  was  the  thought  to  Gosta  of  seeing  the 
people  he  had  betrayed.  He  knew  also  that  Don 
Juan  could  not  hold  out  much  longer,  and  what 
was  to  become  of  them? 

Now  they  saw  the  Berga  farmstead  in  the  forest 
clearing.  Lights  streamed  from  the  windows.  Gosta 
knew  too  well  for  whose  sake. 

Just  then  the  wolves  fled,  fearing  the  neighbor- 
hood of  man,  and  Gosta  drove  past  Berga;  but  he 
did  not  get  far,  for,  where  the  road  turned  into  the 
forest  again,  he  saw  a  dark  group  fronting  him  — 
the  wolves  awaited  them. 


tc 


GOSTA  BERLING  — POET  87 

We  must  return  to  the  parsonage,  and  say  we 
went  for  a  sleigh  ride  in  the  starlight.  This  won't 
do." 

They  turned,  but  the  next  moment  the  sledge 
was  surrounded  by  the  savage  beasts.  Grey  bodies 
pressed  near,  white  teeth  gleamed,  glaring  eyes 
flashed;  they  howled  with  hunger  and  the  thirst  of 
blood.  Their  white  teeth  were  ready  to  tear  into 
soft  human  flesh.  They  sprang  upon  Don  Juan, 
and  hung  to  the  harness.  Anna  sat  and  wondered 
if  they  would  be  eaten  up  entirely,  or  if  people 
would  find  their  torn  limbs  in  the  bloody  trampled 
snow  next  morning. 

"It  is  a  case  of  life  and  death  now,"  she  said, 
bending  down  and  grasping  Tankred  by  his  collar. 

"Let  him  be,  it  would  not  help  us.  It  isn't  for 
his  sake  the  wolves  are  abroad  to-night." 

And  Gosta  drove  into  the  yard  at  Berga,  the 
wolves  following  them  to  the  very  steps,  so  that  he 
was  obliged  to  beat  them  off  with  the  whip. 

"Anna,"  he  said,  as  they  reached  the  door,  "it  is 
not  God's  will.  Keep  a  good  countenance  now,  if 
you  are  the  woman  I  think  you." 

The  sleigh-bells  had  been  heard  indoors,  and  all 
the  household  came  to  meet  them. 

"He  has  brought  her!'  they  cried,  "he  has 
brought  her!  Long  live  Gosta  Berling!' 

And  they  passed  from  one  embrace  to  another. 
Many  questions  were  not  asked.  It  was  late;  their 


GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

perilous  drive  had  unnerved  them,  and  they  needed 
rest.  It  was  sufficient  for  them  all  that  Anna  had 
come.  All  was  well,  only  Corinne  and  the  green  trav- 
elling-rug, Mamsell  Ulrika's  prized  gift,  had  been 
lost  in  the  struggle. 


The  whole  house  lay  in  sleep  when  Gosta  Berling 
rose  and  crept  downstairs.  Unobserved  by  any  one, 
he  took  Don  Juan  out  of  the  stable,  yoked  him  to 
his  sledge,  and  was  on  the  point  of  driving  away 
when  Anna  Stjarnhok  came  out  of  the  house. 

"  I  heard  you  go  out,"  she  said, "  so  I  got  up  also. 
I  am  ready  to  go  with  you." 

He  went  up  to  her  and  took  her  hand. 

"Don't  you  understand  yet,  Anna?  It  cannot 
be.  It  is  not  God's  will.  I  was  here  to-day  to  dinner 
and  heard  their  trouble  about  your  faithlessness, 
and  I  drove  to  Borg  to  bring  you  back  to  Ferdi- 
nand. But  I  never  have  been  anything  but  a  good- 
for-nothing,  and  never  will  be  anything  else.  I  de- 
ceived him  and  took  you  for  myself.  My  old  friend 
here  believed  me  to  be  a  true  man,  and  I  have  de- 
ceived her.  And  another  poor  creature  suffers  cold 
and  hunger  cheerfully  to  die  among  friends,  and 
I  was  ready  to  let  Sintram  turn  her  out.  You  were 
so  beautiful,  and  sin  is  so  pleasant,  and  Gosta  Ber- 
ling is  so  easily  tempted!  Ah,  what  a  wretch  I  am! 
I  know  how  they  love  their  home,  and  I  was  about 


GOSTA  BERLING  — POET  89 

to  let  it  be  ruined!  I  forgot  all  for  your  sake,  you 
were  so  lovely.  But  now,  Anna,  since  I  have  seen 
their  joy  1  cannot  keep  you  —  no,  I  will  not.  Oh, 
my  beloved !  He  above  us  plays  with  our  wills.  The 
time  has  come  for  us  to  bow  under  His  chastening 
hand.  Promise  me  that  from  this  hour  you  will  take 
your  burden  upon  you.  All  in  this  house  depend 
on  you.  Promise  me  that  you  will  be  their  help  and 
stay!  If  you  love  me,  if  you  will  lighten  my  heavy 
grief,  promise  me  this!  My  dearest,  is  your  heart 
so  great  that  it  can  conquer  itself  and  yet  smile?' 

And  she  received  with  ecstasy  the  call  to  sacri- 
fice. 

"I  will  do  as  you  will — I  will  sacrifice  myself 
cheerfully." 

"And  you  will  not  hate  my  poor  friends?' 

She  smiled  sadly. 

"As  long  as  I  love  you,  I  shall  love  them." 

"  Now  I  know  what  a  woman  you  are.  Oh !  it  is 
hard  to  leave  you." 

"Farewell,  Gosta;  God  be  with  you.  My  love 
shall  not  tempt  you  to  sin." 

She  turned  to  go  in;  he  followed  her. 

"Will  you  soon  forget  me,  Anna?' 

"  Go  now,  Gosta,  we  are  but  human ! ' 

He  threw  himself  into  the  sledge,  then  she  came 
again  to  him. 

Have  you  forgotten  the  wolves?' 

I  am  thinking  of  them,  but  they  have  done  their 


(C 
(C 


90  COST  A  BERLING'S  SAGA 

work.  They  have  nothing  further  to  do  with  me 
to-night." 

Again  he  stretched  out  his  arms  to  her,  but  Don 
Juan  grew  impatient  and  started.  He  let  the  reins 
hang,  turning  to  look  back,  then  leaned  against  the 
back  of  the  sledge  and  wept  like  a  man  in  despair. 

"I  had  my  happiness  in  my  hand,  and  I  have 
thrown  it  aside!  I  have  cast  it  away  myself!  Why 
did  I  not  keep  it?" 

Ah,  Gosta  Berling,  thou  strongest  and  weakest 
of  men! 


"The  fachucha 

WAR  horse,  war  horse,  old  steed  now  tethered 
in  the  field,  do  you  remember  your  youth? 

Do  you  remember  the  day  of  the  battle,  when 
you  charged  as  if  borne  on  wings,  your  mane  flar- 
ing above  you  like  flickering  flames,  your  black 
chest  glistening  with  frothy  foam  and  splashes  of 
blood?  In  harness  of  gold  you  bounded  forward, 
the  earth  rumbling  beneath  you ;  and  you  trembled 
with  joy ,  brave  old  steed.  Ah,  but  you  were  splendid ! 

It  is  the  hour  of  twilight  in  the  cavaliers'  wing. 
In  the  big  room  the  cavaliers'  chests  stand  against 
the  wall,  and  their  holiday  clothes  hang  on  hooks  in 
a  corner.  The  firelight  from  the  hearth  plays  on  the 
whitewashed  walls  and  the  checkered  yellow  cur- 
tains that  hide  the  cubby-beds.  The  cavaliers'  wing 
is  n'o  royal  antechamber,  no  seraglio  with  cushioned 
divans  and  soft  pillows. 

Up  there  Lilliecrona's  violin  is  heard.  He,  Lillie- 
crona,  is  playing  the  cachucha  in  the  dusk  of  the 
evening;  and  he  plays  it  over  and  over  again. 

Cut  the  strings !  Break  the  bow !  Why  does  he 
play  that  accursed  dance,?  Why  does  he  play  it  when 
Ensign  Orneclou  lies  sick  with  the  pains  of  gout, 
so  severe  that  he  cannot  move  in  his  bed!  Snatch 
the  fiddle  from  him  and  dash  it  against  the  wall,  if 
he  will  not  stop. 


92  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

Master,  is  it  for  us  you  play  the  cachucha  ?  Shall 
it  be  danced  on  the  shaky  floor  of  the  cavaliers'  wing, 
between  narrow  walls,  blackened  with  smoke  and 
grimy  with  dirt,  under  this  low  ceiling? 

The  cachucha,  is  it  for  us  —  for  us  cavaliers? 
Without  howls  the  snowstorm.  Would  you  teach  the 
snowflakes  to  dance  to  the  measure?  Are  you  play- 
ing for  the  light-footed  children  of  the  storm? 

Tremulous  feminine  forms,  with  hot  blood  throb- 
bing in  their  veins,  small  sooty  hands  that  have 
thrown  aside  the  pot  to  take  up  the  castanets,  bare 
feet  under  tucked-up  skirts,  crouching  gypsies  with 
bagpipe  and  tambourine,  Moorish  arcades,  marble- 
paved  courts,  moonlight  and  dark  eyes — have  you 
these,  master?  Else  let  the  violin  rest. 

The  cavaliers  must  dry  their  wet  clothes  by  the 
fire.  Shall  they  whirl  about  in  top-boots,  with  spiked 
heels  and  soles  an  inch  thick?  All  day  they  have 
plowed  through  knee-deep  snow  to  reach  the  bear's 
lair.  Think  you  they  will  dance  in  wet,  reeking 
woollen  clothes,  with  shaggy  bruin  for  partner? 

An  evening  sky  glittering  with  stars,  dark  hair 
adorned  with  red  roses,  an  atmosphere  vibrant  with 
blissful  longing,  untutored  grace  of  movement,  love 
rising  from  the  earth,  raining  from  the  heavens, 
floating  in  the  air  —  can  you  conjure  these,  master? 
Else,  why  make  us  yearn  for  such  things? 

Most  cruel  of  men,  would  you  sound  the  battle 
call  to  a  tethered  war  horse !  Rutger  von  Orneclou 


THE  CACHUCHA  93 

is  fettered  to  his  bed  with  gout.  Spare  him  the  pain 
of  tender  memories ! 

He,  too,  has  worn  the  sombrero  and  the  hair-net 
of  many  colors;  he,  too,  has  worn  the  velvet  jacket 
and  carried  a  stiletto  in  his  girdle.  Spare  old  Or- 
neclou,  master. 

But  Lilliecronagoes  on  playing  thecachucha,and 
Orneclou  suffers  like  the  lover  who  sees  the  swal- 
low winging  toward  the  distant  abode  of  the  beloved, 
like  the  hart  driven  by  the  hounds  past  the  cooling 
spring. 

For  a  moment  Lilliecrona  raises  his  chin  from 
the  violin. 

"Ensign,  do  you  remember  Rosalie  von  Ber- 
ger?'  he  asks. 

Orneclou  swears  a  great  oath. 

"  She  was  light  as  a  candle-flame,  and  danced  and 
sparkled  like  the  diamond  at  the  tip  of  the  fiddle- 
bow.  You  must  remember  her  at  the  theatre  in  Karl- 
stad. We  saw  her  when  we  were  young,  if  you  recall." 

The  ensign  remembered.  She  was  petite  and  be- 
witching— all  fire.  Ah,  she  could  dance  the  cachu- 
cha!  And  she  taught  all  the  young  men  in  Karl- 
stad to  dance  it  and  to  play  the  castanets.  At  the 
Governor's  ball  the  ensign  and  Froken  von  Berger 
danced  a  pas  de  deux  in  Spanish  costume.  And  he 
had  danced  as  one  dances  under  fig-trees  and  mag- 
nolias, like  the  Spaniard — the  real  Spaniard.  No 
one  in  all  Varmland  could  dance  the  cachucha  as 


94  COST  A  BERLING'S  SAGA 

he  danced  it.  What  a  cavalier  was  lost  to  Varm- 
land  when  the  gout  stiffened  his  legs  and  great 
lumps  formed  on  his  joints!  And  what  a  gallant 
figure  he  had  once  been,  so  lithe,  so  handsome,  so 
courtly!  "Handsome  Orneclou'  he  was  called  by 
the  young  girls,  who  were  ready  to  start  a  deadly 
feud  over  a  dance  with  him. 

Lilliecrona  again  begins  the  cachucha,  and  Orne- 
clou is  carried  back  to  other  times.  .  .  .  Here  he 
stands,  there  she  —  Rosalie  von  Berger!  He  is  a 
Spanish  lover,  she  a  Spanish  maiden.  But  a  mo- 
ment ago  they  were  alone  in  the  dressing-room. 
He  was  allowed  to  kiss  her,  but  lightly,  lest  his 
blackened  moustaches  print  a  telltale  mark  on  her 
cheek. 

Now  they  dance!  As  one  dances  under  fig-trees 
and  plane-trees,  so  they  dance.  She  draws  away,  he 
follows ;  he  grows  bold,  she  haughty ;  he  is  hurt,  she 
solicitous.  When  at  the  end  he  falls  on  his  knee  and 
receives  her  in  his  outstretched  arms,  a  sigh  sweeps 
through  the  ball-room,  a  sigh  of  rapture.  He  was  the 
Spaniard  to  the  life.  At  just  that  stroke  of  the  bow 
he  had  bent  so,  had  put  out  his  arms  so,  and  poised 
his  foot  so,  to  glide  forward  on  his  toes.  Such  grace ! 
What  a  model  for  a  sculptor! 

He  does  not  know  how  it  happened,  but  some- 
how he  had  got  his  foot  over  the  edge  of  the  bed  and 
was  standing  up.  Now  he  bends,  raises  his  arms, 
snaps  his  fingers,  and  tries  to  glide  across  the  floor 


THE  CACHUCHA  95 

as  in  the  days  gone  by,  when  he  wore  patent  leather 
shoes,  so  tight-fitting  that  the  feet  of  his  stockings 
had  to  be  cut  away. 

Bravo,  Orneclou !  Bravo,  Lilliecrona,  play  life 
into  him! 

But  his  foot  fails  him,  he  cannot  rise  on  his  toes. 
He  kicks  out  once  or  twice — more  he  cannot  do  — 
and  falls  back  on  the  bed. 

Handsome  Senor,  you  have  grown  old.  Perhaps 
the  Seiiorita,  too,  is  old? 

It  is  only  under  the  plane-trees  of  Granada  that 
the  cachucha  is  danced  by  ever  young  gi  tanas — 
ever  young  because,  as  with  the  roses,  each  year 
brings  new  ones. 

So  now  the  time  has  come  to  cut  the  violin 
strings.  .  .  .  No,  no !  play  on,  Lilliecrona,  play  the 
cachucha,  always  the  cachucha!  Teach  us  that  al- 
though our  bodies  have  grown  heavy  and  our  joints 
stiff,  in  our  feelings  we  are  ever  the  same  —  ever 
Spaniards. 

War  horse,  war  horse,  say  that  you  love  the  trum- 
pet-blast, which  tempts  you  into  a  gallop,  even 
though  you  strain  at  your  steel-linked  tether  till 
your  foot  bleeds. 


The  'Ball  at  Skeby 

OH,  women  of  the  olden  days !  To  talk  of  you 
is  to  talk  of  Paradise;  for  you  were  perfect 
beauty,  perfect  light — ever  youthful,  ever  charm- 
ing, and  as  mild  as  the  eyes  of  a  mother  when  she 
gazes  at  her  child.  Soft  as  a  little  squirrel,  you  clung 
about  man's  neck,  and  your  voice  never  shook  with 
anger,  your  brow  was  never  ruffled,  your  soft  hand 
never  grew  harsh  and  hard.  Like  lovely  saints,  like 
bejewelled  pictures,  you  stood  in  the  temple  of 
your  homes.  Incense  and  prayers  were  offered  you, 
love  worked  its  miracles  by  your  power,  and  round 
your  heads  poetry  cast  its  aureola. 

Oh,  women  of  the  olden  days!  This  is  the  story 
of  how  one  of  you  gave  her  love  to  Gosta  Berling. 

Scarcely  had  Anna  Stjarnhok's  kisses  died  on 
his  lips,  scarcely  had  he  forgotten  the  pressure  of  her 
arms  around  his  neck,  but  sweeter  lips  and  whiter 
arms  were  stretched  toward  him.  He  could  do  noth- 
ing but  receive  the  loveliest  of  gifts,  for  the  heart 
is  incorrigible  in  its  habit  of  loving.  For  every  sor- 
row caused  by  love,  it  knows  no  other  cure  than  a 
newer  love,  as  those  who  have  burned  themselves 
with  hot  iron  deaden  the  pain  by  burning  themselves 
once  more.  . 

A  fortnight  after  the  ball  at  Borg  a  great  festival 
was  given  at  Ekeby. 


THE  BALL  AT  EKEBY  97 

It  was  a  splendid  fete,  but  ask  not  why  or  where- 
fore it  was  given.  For  the  only  reason  for  which  a 
fete  is  worth  giving — that  eyes  might  shine,  and 
hearts  and  feet  might  dance,  and  joy  might  again 
find  a  place  among  mankind ;  that  handsmight  meet, 
and  lips  might  kiss. 

But  speak  not  of  kisses ! 

And  what  a  fete  it  was !  Old  men  and  women  be- 
came young  again  and  laughed  and  rejoiced  when 
they  spoke  of  it.  But  then  the  cavaliers  were  sole 
managers  at  Ekeby. 

Fru  Samzelius  wandered  through  the  country 
with  her  beggar's  scrip  and  staff,  and  the  Major  was 
atSjo.  He  could  not  be  present  at  the  ball,  for  small- 
pox had  broken  out  at  Sjo,  and  he  was  afraid  of 
carrying  infection. 

What  a  number  of  enjoyments  were  crowded 
into  those  twelve  hours,  from  the  first  popping  of 
the  corks  of  the  first  bottles  of  wine  at  the  dinner  to 
the  last  strain  of  the  violins  when  midnight  was  long 
passed !  They  sank  back  into  eternity,  those  mirth- 
crowned  hours,  frenzied  with  the  fiery  wine,  the 
choicest  food,  the  loveliest  music,  the  cleverest  act- 
ing, and  the  most  beautiful  tableaux.  They  sank 
back,  giddy  with  the  wild  dancing.  Where  was  there 
so  smooth  a  floor,  such  courtly  cavaliers,  such  lovely 
women? 

Oh,  women  of  the  olden  days !  You  knew  well 
how  to  brighten  the  feasts.  Streams  of  fire,  of  genius, 


98  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

and  of  youthful  ardor  touch  all  who  approach  you, 
It  was  worth  while  to  spend  one's  gold  on  the  can- 
dles that  lighted  up  your  beauty,  upon  the  wine 
that  awoke  the  gaiety  in  your  hearts.  It  was  worth 
while  to  dance  one's  shoes  to  dust,  and  to  wield  the 
violin  bow  till  the  arm  dropped  with  weariness. 

Oh,  women  of  the  olden  days !  You  held  the  keys 
of  Paradise;  the  halls  of  Ekeby  were  thronged  by 
the  loveliest  of  your  train. 

There  was  the  young  Countess  Dohna,  excit- 
edly eager  for  dancing  and  all  games,  as  was  natural 
for  her  twenty  years ;  there  were  the  lovely  daugh- 
ters of  the  Judge  of  Munkerud  and  the  girls  from 
Berga;  there  was  Anna  Stjarnhok,  a  thousand  times 
more  beautiful  than  before,  in  the  quiet  melancholy 
which  had  come  over  her  since  the  night  she  had 
been  chased  by  wolves ;  there  were  many  who  are 
not  forgotten  yet,  but  who  soon  will  be;  and  there, 
too,  was  the  beautiful  Marienne  Sinclaire. 

Even  she,  the  loveliest  vof  the  lovely,  a  queen 
among  people,  the  goddess-like,  the  fascinating 
Marienne  Sinclaire,  deigned  to  come.  She,  the  far- 
famed  beauty,  who  had  shone  at  court  and  at  many 
a  ducal  castle,  the  queen  of  beauty,  who  received 
the  homage  of  the  whole  country — she,  who  ignited 
the  fires  of  love  wherever  she  showed  herself —  she 
had  deigned  to  appear  at  the  ball  given  by  the  cav- 
aliers. 

The  honor  of  Varmland  beamed  afar  in  those 


THE  BALL  AT  EKEBY  99 

days,  borne  up  by  many  a  haughty  name.  There 
was  much  which  its  joyous  children  prided  them- 
selves upon.  But  ever  when  they  talked  of  their 
many  splendors,  they  spoke  of  Marienne  Sinclaire. 

The  story  of  her  conquests  filled  the  land.  They 
told  you  of  many  earls  whose  coronets  might  have 
graced  her  head,  of  the  many  millions  which  had 
been  laid  at  her  feet,  of  the  brave  swords  and  the 
poet's  wreaths  which  had  allured  her. 

And  she  possessed  more  than  mere  beauty.  She 
was  talented  and  learned.  The  best  men  of  the  time 
were  happy  to  converse  with  her.  She  did  not  write, 
but  many  of  her  thoughts  given  to  the  souls  of  her 
friends  have  lived  again  in  song. 

To  Varmland —  to  the  bear-land — she  came  but 
seldom.  Her  time  was  spent  in  constant  visits.  Her 
father,  the  rich  Melchior  Sinclaire,  lived  with  his 
wife  at  Bjorne,and  allowed  Marienne  to  travel  about 
to  her  grand  friends  in  the  towns  or  to  the  great 
estates.  He  took  pleasure  in  relating  how  much 
money  she  spent,  and  both  the  old  people  lived 
happily  in  the  reflected  glory  of  Marienne's  splen- 
dor. 

Her  life  was  one  of  pleasure  and  adoration.  The 
air  about  her  was  love.  Love  was  her  light  and  her 
life,  and  love  her  daily  bread.  She  had  been  in  love 
herself  often — oh,  so  often! — but  never  had  this 
love  lasted  for  a  sufficiently  long  time  that  out  of  it 
might  be  forged  the  chains  that  should  bind  for  life. 


ioo  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

"I  am  waiting  for  him  —  the  grand  conqueror," 
she  used  to  say  in  speaking  of  love.  "He  has  stormed 
no  walls  and  surmounted  no  graves  as  yet.  He  has 
come  tamely  to  me,  having  neither  wildness  in  his 
eyes  nor  daring  in  his  heart.  I  am  waiting  for  the 
mighty  one  who  will  carry  me  out  of  myself.  I  want 
to  feel  the  love  so  strong  within  me  that  I  tremble 
before  it.  I  only  know  the  kind  of  love  at  which  my 
intellect  smiles." 

She  had  the  low  voice  and  the  refinement  of  a 
woman  of  high  rank.  They  all  bowed  down  to  her 
in  her  country  home,  and  felt  their  insignificance 
and  ignorance  of  the  ways  of  the  fine  world,  but 
if  she  spoke,  if  she  only  smiled — all  was  well.  She 
was  a  queen,  and  created  a  court  and  courtly  man- 
ners wherever  she  went. 

Her  presence  gave  inspiration  to  thespeeches  and 
life  to  the  wine.  She  gave  speed  to  the  violin  bows, 
and  the  dancing  went  gayer  than  ever  over  the  boards 
that  she  touched  with  her  slender  feet.  She  shone 
in  the  tableaux  and  in  the  acting. 

Oh,  no,  it  was  not  her  fault — it  was  never  her 
fault. 

It  was  the  balcony,  the  moonlight,  the  lace  veil, 
and  the  cavalier  dress  that  were  to  blame.  The  poor 
young  people  were  innocent.. 

All  that  how  follows,  which  led  to  so  much  un- 
happiness,  was  done  with  the  best  intention.  Squire 
Julius,  who  could  manage  anything,  had  arranged 


THE  BALL  AT  EKEBY  101 

a  tableau  chiefly  that  Marienne  should  be  seen  in 
great  splendor. 

Before  a  stage  erected  in  the  big  salon  at  Ekeby 
sat  a  hundred  guests,  and  watched  a  golden  Span- 
ish moon  rise  in  a  dark  midnight  sky.  Then  a  Don 
Juan  stole  through  the  Seville  street  till  he  paused 
beneath  a  myrtle-covered  balcony.  He  was  dis- 
guised as  a  monk,  but  a  white  embroidered  ruffle 
showed  at  his  sleeve,  and  the  gleaming  point  of  a 
rapier  protruded  from  his  cloak. 

He  raised  his  voice  and  sang: 

"7  kiss  no  maiden  dear, 
Nor  press  my  lips  to  a  flagon's  rim 
To  taste  the  purling  wine. 

A  cheek  so  clear 

Set  on  fire  by  my  glance, 

Sweet  eyes,  seeking  mine 

As  if  by  chance — 
Such  worldly  pleasures  are  not  for  me. 

u  Come  not  in  your  beauty's  might, 
Senora,  to  the  lattice  here, 
I  tremble  at  your  sight. 

I  wear  the  cowl 

And  the  rosary  long, 

To  the  Madonna  still 

Does  my  heart  belong; 
In  the  water  cruse  I  must  drown  my  song." 


102  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

When  his  voice  died  away,  Marienne  came  out 
upon  the  balcony  dressed  in  black  velvet  and  a  lace 
veil.  She  leaned  over  the  rail  and  sang  slowly  and 
ironically: 

"  Why  do  you  stand,  you  holy  man, 
At  midnight  time,  'math  my  lattice  high, 
Say,  do  you  pray  for  my  soul?* 

Then  quickly,  and  with  feeling: 

u  Nay  ,fly , — /  pray ; 
They  may  find  you  here. 
And  your  sword  doth  betray, 
And  the  clank  of  your  spur, 
That  the  hooded  monk  is  a  fair  cavalier" 

At  these  words  the  monk  threw  aside  his  disguise, 
and  Gosta  Berling  stood  under  the  balcony  in  a 
Don's  dress  of  silk  and  gold.  He  paid  no  heed  to  the 
beauty's  warning.  On  the  contrary,  he  climbed  one 
of  the  balcony  pillars,  swung  himself  over  the  bal- 
ustrade, and,  as  Squire  Julius  had  arranged,  fell  at 
the  feet  of  the  lovely  Marienne. 

She  smiled  graciously  upon  him  and  gave  him 
her  hand  to  kiss,  and  as  they  gazed  at  each  other, 
lost  in  love,  the  curtain  descended. 

No  one  at  Ekeby  had  ever  seen  anything  love- 
lier than  those  two  on  that  moonlit  balcony.  The 
curtain  had  to  be  drawn  up  again  and  again.  It  was 


THE  BALL  AT  EKEBY  103 

like  a  thunder-cloud,  out  of  which  heaven's  splen- 
dor gleamed,  and  every  glance  was  followed  by  a 
deafening  thunder  of  applause. 

She  was  lovely,  so  wonderfully  lovely,  that  Ma- 
rien.ne.  She  had  fair  hair,  and  dark  blue  eyes  under 
her  dark  eyebrows.  The  curve  of  her  nose  was  in- 
comparable in  its  audacity  and  refinement;  her 
mouth  and  cheeks  and  chin  were  perfectly  formed. 
Beside  hers,  all  other  faces  looked  coarse,  and  near 
her  transparent  complexion  all  others  seemed  dark 
and  ugly.  There  was  charm,  too,  in  every  glance, 
in  every  word,  in  every  movement  of  the  stately 
figure. 

And  before  her  knelt  Gosta  Berling,  with  a  face 
as  spiritual  as  a  poet's  and  as  daring  as  a  conquer- 
or's, with  eyes  that  glittered  with  genius  and  hu- 
mor, eyes  that  pleaded  and  insisted.  He  was  strong 
and  supple,  fiery  and  fascinating. 

While  the  curtain  rose  and  fell,  the  young  people 
stood  motionless  in  the  same  attitude.  Gosta's  eyes 
held  Marienne;  they  pleaded  and  insisted. 

At  last  the  applause  died  away,  the  curtain  de- 
scended, and  none  saw  them. 

And  then  Marienne  bent  and  kissed  Gosta  Ber- 
ling. She  did  not  know  why  she  did  it — she  felt  she 
must.  He  stretched  his  arms  about  her  head  and 
held  her  fast,  and  she  kissed  him  again  and  again. 

But  it  was  the  balcony  and  the  moonlight.  It 
was  the  veil  and  the  cavalier  dress,  the  song  and 


104  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

the  applause,  that  were  to  blame;  the  poor  young 
people  were  not  in  fault.  They  had  not  intended  it. 
She  had  not  refused  the  hands  of  earls  and  rejected 
millions  for  love  of  Gosta  Berling,  neither  had  he 
forgotten  Anna  Stjarnhok.  No,  they  were  noj:  to 
blame,  they  had  not  meant  to  do  it. 

It  was  the  gentle  Lovenborg,  he  with  the  tears  in 
his  eyes  and  a  smile  on  his  lips,  who  acted  as  cur- 
tain-puller that  evening.  Troubled  by  the  memo- 
ries of  many  sorrows,  he  paid  little  attention  to 
the  things  of  this  world,  and  had  never  learned 
to  manage  them  properly.  Now,  when  he  saw  that 
Gosta  and  Marienne  had  taken  up  a  new  position, 
he  thought  it  was  part  of  the  tableau,  and  he  pulled 
up  the  curtain. 

They  on  the  balcony  noticed  nothing  till  the 
thunder  of  applause  again  deafened  them. 

Marienne  started  and  tried  to  escape,  but  Gosta 
held  her  firmly,  whispering,"  Stand  still,  they  think 
it  part  of  the  tableau." 

He  felt  how  her  body  trembled,  and  the  glow  of 
her  kisses  died  on  her  lips.  They  were  obliged  to 
stand  like  this  while  the  curtain  again  rose  and  fell, 
and  every  time  a  hundred  pairs  of  eyes  saw  them, 
a  hundred  pairs  of  hands  gave  forth  a  storm  of  ap- 
plause, for  it  was  a  lovely  sight  to  see  two  so  beau- 
tiful give  a  representation  of  love's  happiness.  No 
one  thought  those  kisses  meant  anything  but  a  the- 
atrical pretence;  no  one  guessed  that  the  Senora 


THE  BALL  AT  EKEBY  105 

shook  with  shame  and  the  Don  with  anxiety.  No 
one  but  believed  it  to  be  a  part  of  the  tableau. 

At  last  Marienne  and  Gosta  stood  behind  the 
scenes.  She  passed  her  hand  over  her  forehead.  "  I 
don't  understand  myself,"  she  said. 

"  For  shame,  Froken  Marienne/'  he  said,  with  a 
grimace  and  a  comic  gesture  of  his  arms,  "to  kiss 
Gosta  Berling!  for  shame!' 

She  was  obliged  to  laugh. 

"One  and  all  know  Gosta  Berling  to  be  irresist- 
ible. My  fault  is  no  greater  than  that  of  others/' 

And  they  agreed  to  keep  a  good  countenance,  so 
that  none  should  guess  the  truth. 

"  Can  I  be  certain  that  the  truth  will  never  come 
out,  Herr  Gosta?"  she  asked,  as  they  were  about 
to  join  the  other  guests. 

"You  can,  Froken  Marienne;  the  cavaliers  will 
be  silent,  I  can  answer  for  them." 

She  dropped  her  eyes,  and  a  peculiar  smile  curled 
her  lips. 

"And  if  the  truth  came  out,  what  would  people 
think  of  me,  Herr  Berling?' 

"They  would  think  nothing  of  it.  They  would 
know  it  meant  nothing.  They  would  think  we  were 
in  our  parts  and  continued  to  act." 

Yet  another  question  came  creeping  from  the- 
hidden  eyes  and  the  forced  smile. 

"But  you,  Herr  Gosta?  What  do  you  think  of 
it?" 


106  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

"I  think  you  are  in  love  with  me,"  he  said,  jest- 
ingly. 

"  Don't  believe  any  thing  of  the  kind,"  she  smiled, 
"  or  I  shall  be  obliged  to  thrust  this  dagger  into  you 
to  prove  that  you  are  wrong." 

"Women's  kisses  are  dear,"  said  Gosta.  "Does 
it  cost  a  life  to  be  kissed  by  Marienne  Sinclaire?' 

A  glance  flashed  from  her  eyes,  so  sharp  that  he 
felt  it  like  a  blow. 

"I  would  rather  see  you  dead,  Gosta  Berling — 
dead— dead!" 

These  words  awoke  the  old  longing  in  the  heart 
of  the  poet. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "if  your  words  were  more  than 
words,  if  they  were  bullets  out  of  a  dark  thicket, 
if  they  were  daggers  or  poison,  and  had  the  power 
to  destroy  this  wretched  body  and  give  my  soul  its 
freedom ! ' 

But  she  was  again  calm  and  smiling.  "  Childish- 
ness !"  she  said,  and  took  his  arm  to  rejoin  the 
guests. 

They  retained  their  costumes,  and  their  triumph 
was  renewed  when  they  showed  themselves.  All 
praised  them,  no  one  suspected  anything. 

The  ball  began  again,  but  Gosta  shunned  the 
dancing-room.  His  heart  was  smarting  from  Mari- 
enne's  glance  as  if  it  had  touched  it  like  sharp  steel. 
He  understood  too  well  the  meaning  of  her  words. 
It  was  a  shame  to  love  him,  a  shame  to  be  loved  by 


THE  BALL  AT  EKEBY  107 

him  —  a  shame  greater  than  death.  He  would  never 
dance  again;  he  never  wanted  to  see  them  again, 
those  beautiful  women.  He  knew  it  well — those 
lovely  eyes,  those  rosy  cheeks,  burned  not  for  him. 
Not  for  him  was  the  fall  of  those  light  feet  nor  the 
chime  of  that  low  laughter.  Yes,  dance  with  him, 
flirt  with  him — that  they  would  do,  but  none  of 
them  would  seriously  have  chosen  to  give  him  her 
love. 

The  poet  went  away  to  the  smoking-room,  to 
the  old  gentlemen,  and  took  his  place  at  one  of  the 
card-tables.  He  happened  to  sit  down  near  the  mas- 
ter of  Bjorne,  who  was  playing  "Knack,"  with  an 
occasional  turn  at "  Polish  Bank,"  and  had  gathered 
a  whole  pile  of  sixpences  and  farthings  before  him. 
The  stakes  were  already  high,  and  Gosta  drove 
them  higher.  The  green  bank  notes  came  out,  and 
the  heaps  of  money  increased  before  Melchior  Sin- 
claire.  But  before  Gosta,  too,  a  pile  of  silver  and 
paper  gathered,  and  soon  he  was  the  only  one  who 
could  hold  out  against  the  great  land  proprietor  of 
Bjorne.  Soon  even  Melchior  Sinclaire's  pile  retreated 
over  to  Gosta. 

"Gosta,  my  boy,"  said  his  opponent,  laughing, 
when  he  had  lost  all  he  had  in  his  purse  and  pocket- 
book,  "what  are  we  to  do  now?  I  am  cleaned  out, 
and  I  never  play  with  borrowed  money.  I  promised 
my  mother  I  never  would." 

But  he  found  a  way — he  gambled  away  his  watch 


io8  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

and  chain  and  his  beaver  cloak,  and  was  on  the  point 
of  staking  his  horse  and  sledge  when  Sintram  inter- 
rupted him. 

"  Put  up  something  to  change  the  luck,"  was  the 
advice  of  the  wicked  owner  of  Fors;  "put  up  some- 
thing to  win." 

"The  devil  knows  where  I  am  to  find  it!' 

"  Stake  your  heart's  dearest  treasure,  brother  Mel- 
chior — stake  your  daughter." 

"  You  can  do  that  without  fear,"  said  Gosta,  laugh- 
ing; "that  stake  I  shall  never  take  home." 

The  great  Melchior  Sinclaire  could  do  nothing 
else  than  laugh  also.  He  did  not  approve  of  Mari- 
enne's  name  being  mentioned  at  the  gaming-table, 
but  the  idea  was  so  absurdly  improbable  he  could 
not  be  angry.  Stake  and  lose  Marienne  to  Gosta? 
Yes,  he  could  dare  that. 

"That  is  to  say,"  he  explained,  "that  if  you  can 
get  her  consent,  I  will  set  my  blessing  on  the  mar- 
riage on  this  card." 

Gosta  staked  all  his  gains,  and  the  game  began. 
He  won,  and  the  proprietor  of  Bjorne  gave  up  play- 
ing. He  could  not  fight  against  Fortune,  he  saw. 

Well,  Gosta  Berling,  does  not  your  heart  beat  at 
this?  Don't  you  understand  your  fate?  What  was 
the  meaning  of  Marienne's  kisses  and  her  anger? 
Don't  you  understand  a  woman's  heart?  And  now 
this  stake  won  too!  Don't  you  see  that  fate  wills 
what  love  wills?  Up,  Gosta  Berling! 


THE  BALL  AT  EKEBY  109 

No,  Gosta  Berling  is  not  in  the  mood  for  love- 
making  to-night.  He  is  angry  over  the  hardness  of 
hearts.  Why  should  love  only  be  healed  by  love? 
He  knows  too  well  the  end  of  these  pretty  ditties. 
No  one  is  constant  to  him;  there  is  love  for  him, 
but  no  wife.  It  is  no  use  trying. 

The  night  goes  on,  midnight  has  passed.  The  la- 
dies' cheeks  begin  to  pale,  their  curls  to  straighten, 
their  flounces  to  look  creased.  The  matrons  rise 
from  the  sofa-corners  and  remark  that,  as  the  fete 
has  continued  for  twelve  hours,  it  is  time  to  go 
home. 

And  that  would  have  been  the  end  of  the  great 
ball,  if  Lilliecrona  had  not  taken  up  his  violin  and 
played  a  last  polka.  The  horses  stood  at  the  door, 
the  old  ladies  were  putting  on  their  furs  and  quilted 
hoods,  and  the  old  gentlemen  buttoned  up  their 
greatcoats  and  tied  on  their  belts,  but  the  young 
people  could  not  tear  themselves  away  from  the 
dancing.  They  danced  in  their  cloaks;  they  danced 
ring  polka,  swing  polka,  and  every  kind  of  polka; 
it  was  all  one  mad  whirl.  As  soon  as  a  man  gave 
up  his  partner,  another  sprang  forward  and  claimed 
her. 

Even  melancholy  Gosta  was  drawn  into  the  vor- 
tex. He  meant  to  dance  away  his  sadness  and  sense 
of  degradation,  he  wanted  to  feel  the  wild  joy  of 
life  in  his  veins  again  —  he  meant  to  be  gay,  he, 
as  well  as  the  others — and  he  danced  so  that  the 


no  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

walls  seemed  to  spin  round,  and  his  thoughts  grew 
giddy. 

Ah,  who  is  the  lady  he  has  snatched  from  the 
crowd  ? 

She  is  light  and  graceful,  and  he  feels  streams  of 
fire  flow  between  them.  Oh,  Marienne! 

While  Gosta  danced  with  Marienne,  Sintram  was 
sitting  already  in  his  sledge  in  the  courtyard^  and 
near  him  stood  Melchior  Sinclaire. 

The  great  land  proprietor  was  impatient  at  hav- 
ing to  wait  for  Marienne.  He  stamped  on  the  snow 
with  his  big  boots,  and  swung  his  arms,  for  it  was 
bitterly  cold. 

"  Perhaps,  after  all,  you  should  not  have  gambled 
Marienne  away  to  Gosta/'  said  Sintram. 

"Why  not?" 

Sintram  put  his  reins  in  order  and  lifted  his  whip 
before  he  answered:  "All  that  kissing  did  hot  be- 
long to  the  tableau ! ' 

Melchior  Sinclaire  raised  his  arm  to  strike,  but 
Sintram  was  gone.  He  started  his  horse  at  racing 
speed,  not  daring  to  look  back,  for  Melchior  Sin- 
claire had  a  heavy  hand  and  but  short  patience. 

The  master  of  Bjorne  went  back  to  the  dancing- 
hall  and  saw  Marienne  and  Gosta  dancing  together. 
The  last  polka  was  wildly,  crazily  danced.  Some  of 
the  couples  were  pale,  some  blooming  red,  the  dust 
hung  like  smoke  over  the  room.  The  waxen  lights 
burned  low  in  the  candlesticks,  and  amid  all  this 


THE  BALL  AT  EKEBY  in 

ghost-like  decay,  Gosta  and  Marienne  flew  on  and 
on,  royal  in  their  unwearied  strength, with  no  blem- 
ish marring  their  beauty,  happy  in  being  able  to 
indulge  in  the  entrancing  movement. 

Melchior  Sinclaire  watched  them  for  a  time,  then 
he  went  away  and  left  Marienne  to  dance.  He 
slammed  the  door  after  him,  stamped  down  the 
steps,  and  without  further  ado  seated  himself  in 
the  sledge,  where  his  wife  already  waited,  and  drove 
home. 

When  Marienne  finished  dancing  and  asked  for 
her  parents,  they  were  gone. 

When  she  was  certain  of  this,  she  allowed  no  one 
to  see  her  surprise.  She  dressed  quietly,  and  went 
down  into  the  courtyard,  and  the  ladies  in  the  dress- 
ing-room thought  she  had  her  own  sledge  waiting 
for  her. 

But  in  her  thin,  silk  slippers,  she  was  hurrying 
home  without  telling  any  one  of  her  trouble.  No  one 
knew  her  in  the  darkness  as  she  walked  on  the  road- 
side; no  one  could  think  the  tramp,  who  was  driven 
deep  into  the  snowdrifts  by  passing  sledges,  was 
beautiful  Marienne  Sinclaire. 

When  she  could  go  securely  along  the  middle 
of  the  road,  she  began  to  run.  She  ran  as  long  as 
she  could,  then  walked,  then  ran  again.  A  miserable, 
aching  fear  drove  her  forward. 

From  Ekeby  to  Bjorne  is  about  a  mile  and  a  half. 
Marienne  was  soon  home,  and  yet  she  almost  felt 


ri2  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

she  had  come  to  the  wrong  place  —  for  all  the  doors 
were  closed,  and  all  the  lights  were  out  —  she  won- 
dered if  her  parents  had  not  yet  arrived. 

She  went  forward  and  knocked  loudly  at  the  hall 
door.  She  clutched  the  latch  and  shook  it  till  it  re- 
sounded all  over  the  house.  No  one  came  to  open, 
but  when  she  dropped  the  iron  latch  which  she  had 
held,  it  tore  away  the  frozen  skin  from  her  ringers. 

Melchior  Sinclaire  had  gone  home  to  bar  the  door 
against  his  only  daughter. 

He  was  intoxicated  with  much  drinking,  wild  with 
anger.  He  hated  his  daughter  because  she  loved 
Gosta  Berling.  Now  he  had  locked  the  servants  into 
the  kitchen  and  his  wife  into  her  bedroom,  and  he 
swore  a  solemn  oath  to  them  that  he  would  kill  any 
one  who  let  Marienne  in. 

They  knew  he  always  kept  his  word.  No  one  had 
ever  seen  him  so  furious.  No  such  sorrow  had  ever 
touched  him.  If  his  daughter  had  come  before  him, 
it  is  probable  he  would  have  killed  her. 

He  had  given  her  jewels  and  silken  dresses;  he 
had  let  her  learn  all  culture  and  wisdom.  She  had 
been  his  pride,  his  honor.  He  had  rejoiced  over  her 
as  if  she  wore  a  crown.  She  was  his  queen,  his  god- 
dess, his  adored,  proud,  beautiful  Marienne!  Had 
he  ever  grudged  her  anything?  Had  he  not  always 
felt  himself  to  be  too  coarse  to  be  her  father?  Ah, 
Marienne ! 

Ought  he  not  to  hate  her  when  she  fell  in  love 


THE  BALL  AT  EKEBY  113 

with  Gosta  Berling  and  kissed  him?  Ought  he  not 
to  turn  her  out  and  bar  his  doors  upon  her,  when 
she  had  dishonored  her  grandeur  by  loving  such  a 
man?  If  she  stayed  at  Ekeby,or  if  she  crept  away  to 
some  of  the  neighbors  to  get  a  lodging  for  the  night, 
if  she  slept  in  the  snowdrift,  it  was  all  the  same,  she 
was  already  trampled  in  the  dirt,  his  lovely  Mari- 
enne.  Her  glory  was  gone ;  the  glory  of  his  life  was 
gone  too. 

He  lay  in  his  bed  and  heard  her  knocking  at  the 
door.  What  did  it  matter  to  him?  Some  one  stood 
there  who  was  ready  to  marry  an  unfrocked  par- 
son—  he  had  no  home  for  such  a  woman.  If  he 
had  loved  her  less,  if  he  had  been  less  proud  of 
her,  he  might  have  let  her  in.  He  could  not  refuse 
them  his  blessing — he  had  lost  that  in  gambling  to 
Gosta;  but  to  open  his  door  to  her — that  he  would 
not  do. 

And  the  young  girl  still  stood  outside  the  door 
of  her  home.  Now  she  shook  the  latch  in  a  fit  of 
fury;  now  she  fell  on  her  knees,  and,  clasping  her 
frozen  hands  together,  begged  forgiveness. 

But  no  one  heard  her,  no  one  answered,  no  one 
opened. 

Was  it  not  awful  ?  I  am  frightened  in  speaking  of 
it.  She  came  from  a  ball  where  she  had  been  queen; 
she  had  been  proud,  rich,  and  happy,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment she  was  cast  down  into  bottomless  misery. 
Shut  out  of  her  home,  given  a  prey  to  the  snow; 


ii4  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

not  scorned,  nor  beaten,  nor  cursed,  only  shut  out 
with  cold,  determined  heartlessness. 

Think  of  the  frosty,  starry  night  surrounding 
her,  the  great  wide  night  with  its  desolate  fields  of 
snow,  and  the  silent  forests.  All  slept,  all  was  sunk 
in  painless  sleep,  there  was  only  one  living  point  in 
all  that  slumbering  whiteness.  All  sorrow  and  fear 
and  horror,  which  at  other  times  seems  spread  over 
all  the  world,  were  concentrated  in  that  one  lonely 
point.  O  God !  to  suffer  alone  in  the  midst  of  that 
slumbering,  icy  world. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Marienne  knew 
hardness  and  cruelty.  Her  mother  would  not  leave 
her  bed  to  let  her  in;  old  servants,  who  had  taught 
her  to  walk,  heard  her,  but  would  not  move  a  muscle 
to  save  her ;  and  why  was  she  thus  punished  ?  Where 
was  her  refuge,  if  not  here?  If  she  had  been  guilty  of 
murder,  she  would  have  come  here  believing  they 
would  forgive  her.  If  she  had  fallen  to  the  greatest 
depth  of  misery,  and  come  here  in  rags,  she  would 
have  approached  the  door  confidently,  expecting 
a  loving  welcome.  That  door  was  the  entrance  to 
her  home,  and  behind  it  she  could  only  expect  to 
find  love. 

Had  her  father  not  tried  her  sufficiently;  would 
he  never  open?  Would  n't  they  open  it  soon? 

"Father,  father,"  she  cried,  "let  me  in.  I  am 
frozen  and  trembling.  It  is  dreadful  out  here/' 

"  Mother,  mother,  you  have  taken  so  many  steps 


THE  BALL  AT  EKEBY  115 

to  serve  me,  you  have  watched  for  me  so  many 
times,  why  do  you  sleep  now?  Mother,  mother, 
awake  this  night  also,  and  I  will  never  cause  you 
any  more  sorrow/' 

She  called  and  then  sank  into  breathless  silence, 
to  listen  for  an  answer.  No  one  heard  her,  no  one 
answered. 

She  wrung  her  hands  in  agony,  but  no  tears 
dimmed  her  eyes. 

The  long,  dark  house,  with  its  closed  doors  and 
unlighted  windows,  lay  mysterious,  immovable  in 
the  night.  What  was  to  become  of  her  without  her 
home?  She  was  dishonored,  branded,  as  long  as  the 
heavens  stand  over  the  earth ;  and  her  own  father 
had  set  the  red  iron  on  her  shoulder. 

"Father,"  she  cried  once  more,  "what  will  be- 
come of  me?  People  will  think  the  worst  of  me." 

She  wept  in  anguish,  her  body  was  rigid  with  cold. 

Ah,  that  such  trouble  can  envelop  those  who  have 
stood  so  high.  That  it  is  so  easy  to  be  cast  out  into 
the  deepest  misery!  Are  we  not  then  to  fear  life? 
Who  of  us  sails  securely  ?  Round  us  surges  sorrow 
like  a  foaming  sea;  see  how  its  waves  hungrily  lick 
the  sides  of  the  vessel;  see  how  they  try  to  board 
her !  Oh, there  is  no  sure  anchorage, no  firm  ground, 
no  trusty  ship,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  only  an 
unknown  heaven  over  the  sea  of  trouble. 

But  silence!  At  last,  at  last!  Light  steps  come 
through  the  entrance  hall. 


n6  COST  A  BERLING'S  SAGA 

"Is  it  you,  mother?"  asked  Marienne. 

"Yes,  my  child." 

"Can  I  come  in  now?' 

"Your  father  won't  let  you  in." 

"I  have  walked  in  my  thin  shoes  from  Ekeby. 
I  have  stood  here  an  hour  and  knocked  and  called. 
I  am  freezing  to  death.  Why  did  you  leave  me?' 

"My  child,  my  child,  why  did  you  kiss  Gosta 
Berling?" 

'"  But  tell  my  father  that  that  does  not  mean  that 
I  love  Gosta;  it  was  in  fun.  Does  he  think  I  want 
to  marry  Gosta?' 

"Go  to  the  farm-bailiff's  house,  Marienne,  and 
ask  to  remain  there  for  the  night.  Your  father  is 
drunk,  he  won't  hear  reason.  He  locked  me  upstairs. 
I  crept  out  when  I  thought  he  slept.  He  will  kill  me 
if  I  let  you  in." 

"But,  mother,  shall  I  go  to  strangers  when  I  have 
my  own  home?  Are  you  as  hard  as  my  father?  How 
can  you  allow  him  to  shut  me  out?  I  will  lie  here  in 
the  snowdrifts,  if  you  won't  let  me  in." 

Marienne's  mother  laid  her  hand  on  the  latch, 
but  at  that  moment  heavy  steps  were  heard  on  the 
staircase  and  a  harsh  voice  called  her. 

Marienne  listened  —  her  mother  hurried  away; 
the  harsh  voice  was  scolding,  and  then  .  .  .  Mari- 
enne heard  something  awful  —  every  sound  in  the 
silent  house  reached  her  ears.  She  heard  the  sound 
of  a  blow — of  the  stroke  of  a  stick  or  a  blow  on  the 


THE  BALL  AT  EKEBY  117 

head,  then  a  faint  cry,  then  another  blow;  he  was 
beating  her  mother — the  fearful,  tyrannous  Mel- 
chior  Sinclaire  was  beating  his  wife. 

Marienne  threw  herself  writhing  in  agony  on  the 
steps.  She  was  crying  now,  and  her  tears  froze  on 
the  threshold  of  her  home. 

Pity — mercy !  Open,  open,  that  she  may  give  her 
own  shoulders  to  the  blows.  Oh,  that  he  could  beat 
her  mother!  beat  her,  because  she  could  not  see  her 
daughter  lie  in  the  snowdrifts,  because  she  had  tried 
to  comfort  her! 

Great  degradation  swept  over  her  that  night.  She 
had  dreamed  herself  a  queen,  and  now  she  lay  out- 
side the  door  of  her  home,  hardly  better  than  a 
whipped  tramp.  But  she  raised  herself  again  in  icy 
anger.  Once  again  she  raised  her  hand  and  struck 
the  door  and  cried: 

"  Hear  what  I  say — you — you  — you  who  struck 
my  mother.  You  shall  yet  weep.  Melchior  Sinclaire, 
you  shall  weep!' 

And  then  Marienne  turned  and  lay  down  in  the 
snowdrift.  She  threw  aside  her  fur  mantle,  and  lay 
down  in  the  black  velvet  dress  which  stood  out 
so  distinctly  against  the  white  snow.  She  lay  and 
thought  of  her  father  coming  out  early  for  his 
morning  walk,  and  finding  her  there.  Her  only  wish 
was  that  he  himself  should  find  her. 

•  •••••••• 

Oh,  Death,  you  pale  friend,  is  it  as  true  as  it  is  com- 


n8  COST  A  BERLING'S  SAGA 

forting  for  me  to  know  that  I  can  never  escape  you  ? 
Even  to  me,  the  most  diligent  of  the  workers  among 
men,  you  will  come;  loosen  the  worn  shoes  from  my 
feet,  snatch  the  duster  and  the  milk-can  out  of 
my  hand,  and  take  my  working  clothes  offmy  back. 
With  gentle  force  you  will  stretch  me  upon  a  lace- 
embossed  bed,  you  will  wrap  me  in  white  linen,  my 
feet  will  not  require  any  shoes,  but  my  hands  will  be 
covered  with  white  gloves  which  no  work  will  ever 
soil.  Crowned  for  the  joy  of  rest,  I  shall  sleep  for  a 
thousand  years.  Oh,  Saviour!  The  most  diligent  of 
workers  am  I,  and  I  dream  with  a  shiver  of  delight  of 
the  momentwhen  I  shall  be  taken  to  Thy  kingdom. 

Pale  friend,  my  strength  against  yours  is  weak- 
ness, but  I  tell  you  that  your  fight  was  harder  against 
the  women  of  the  olden  days.  The  strength  of  life 
was  greater  in  their  slight  bodies;  no  cold  could  cool 
their  fiery  blood. 

You  laid  Marienne  on  your  bed,  oh,  Death,  and 
you  sat  by  her  side,  as  an  old  nurse  watches  by  the 
cradle  of  a  child  till  it  sleeps.  You  true  old  nurse, 
who  knows  so  well  what  is  best  for  the  children  of 
men,  how  it  must  anger  you  when  its  playmates 
come,  with  laughter  and  shouts,  and  wake  your 
sleeping  child!  How  angry  you  must  have  been 
when  the  cavaliers  lifted  Marienne  from  her  icy  bed, 
when  a  man's  arms  clasped  her  to  his  breast,  and 
when  warm  tears  fell  from  his  eyes  on  her  face. 


THE  BALL  AT  EKEBY  119 

At  Ekeby  all  the  lights  were  out  and  the  guests 
departed.  The  cavaliers  stood  alone  in  the  cav- 
aliers' wing  round  the  last  half-emptied  punch- 
bowl. 

Then  Gosta  tapped  on  the  rim  of  the  bowl,  and 
made  a  speech  in  honor  of  you  —  women  of  the 
olden  days.  To  talk  of  you  was  to  talk  of  heaven, 
he  said.  You  were  perfect  beauty,  perfect  light.  Ever 
youthful,  ever  beautiful,  and  mild  as  the  eyes  of 
a  mother  when  she  gazed  at  her  child.  As  soft  as  a 
little  squirrel  you  hung  about  man's  neck,  and  no 
one  ever  heard  your  voice  shake  with  anger;  your 
forehead  never  frowned,  your  soft  hands  never  grew 
hard  and  rough.  You  were  saints  in  the  temple  of 
your  homes.  Men  lay  at  your  feet,  offering  incense 
and  prayer  to  you.  By  your  power,  love  worked  its 
miracles,  and  round  your  head  poetry  set  its  glit- 
tering aureola. 

And  the  cavaliers  sprang  up,  wild  with  wine  and 
the  intoxication  of  his  words — their  blood  leap- 
ing with  joy.  Even  old  Uncle  Eberhard  and  lazy 
Cousin  Kristoffer  did  not  draw  back  from  the  new 
project.  Quickly  they  harnessed  the  horses  to  the 
big  sledge  and  the  racing  sledges,  and  off  they  went 
through  the  cold  night  to  pay  homage  to  those  to 
whom  homage  was  due  —  to  serenade  those  whose 
bright  eyes  and  rosy  cheeks  had  graced  the  halls  of 
Ekeby. 

Oh,  it  must  have  pleased  you  greatly,  ladies,  to 


120  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

be  awakened  from  the  heaven  of  your  dreams  by 
a  serenade,  sung  by  your  most  devoted  admirers.  It 
must  have  pleased  you  much  as  it  pleases  a  depart- 
ing soul  to  awake  to  the  music  of  Paradise. 

But  the  cavaliers  had  not  gone  very  far  on  their 
way,  for  when  they  carne  to  Bjorne,  they  found  Ma- 
rienne  lying  in  the  drift  at  the  gate  leading  to  the 
house.  They  trembled  with  fear  and  with  fury  when 
they  saw  her  there.  It  was  like  finding  a  worshipped 
saint  lying  plundered  and  desecrated  outside  the 
church  door;  it  was  as  if  an  unhung  villain  had 
broken  the  neck  and  torn  out  the  strings  of  a  Stradi- 
varius. 

Gosta  shook  his  clenched  fist  at  the  dark  house. 

"You  children  of  hate,"  he  screamed."  You  hail- 
stones and  north  wind — you  destroyers  of  God's 
pleasure  garden!' 

Beerencreutz  lighted  his  horn  lantern  and  threw 
its  beams  upon  the  blue-white  face.  And  the  cava- 
liers saw  her  torn  hands,  and  the  tears  which  had 
frozen  in  her  eyelashes,  and  they  sorrowed  like 
women,  for  she  was  not  only  a  saint  to  them  but 
also  a  beautiful  woman  who  had  been  a  joy  to  their 
old  hearts. 

Gosta  Berling  threw  himself  on  his  knees  beside 
her! 

"'Here  she  lies — my  bride,"  he  said.  "She  gave 
me  the  bridal  kiss  some  hours  ago — and  her  father 
promised  me  his  blessing.  She  lies  and  waits  for  me 


THE  BALL  AT  EKEBY  121 

here  in  her  snowy  bed."  And  he  lifted  her  in  his 
strong  arms. 

"We  will  take  her  home  to  Ekeby,"  he  cried. 
"She  is  mine  now.  I  have  found  her  in  the  snow- 
drift; no  one  can  take  her  away  from  me.  We  will 
not  wake  them  in  that  house.  What  has  she  to  do 
inside  the  doors  against  which  she  had  beaten  her 
hands  bloody?' 

He  was  allowed  to  do  as  he  wished.  He  laid  Ma- 
rienne  in  the  first  sledge  and  took  his  place  beside 
her.  Beerencreutz  placed  himself  behind  and  took 
the  reins. 

"Take  some  snow  and  rub  her,  Gosta,"  he  com- 
manded. 

The  cold  had  but  paralyzed  her  limbs — that  was 
all.  The  excited  heart  still  beat.  She  had  not  even 
lost  consciousness ;  she  knew  the  cavaliers  had  found 
her,  but  she  could  not  move.  So  she  lay  stiff  and 
motionless  in  the  sledge,  while  Gosta  sometimes 
rubbed  her  with  snow,  sometimes  wept  over  her 
and  kissed  her,  and  she  felt  an  unutterable  longing 
to  lift  even  one  hand,  so  that  she  might  return  his 
caresses. 

She  remembered  everything;  lay  there  rigid  and 
immovable  and  thought  clearly  as  never  before. 
Was  she  in  love  with  Gosta  Berling?  Yes,  she  was ! 
Was  it  only  a  caprice  born  of  the  night?  No,  it  had 
been  so  for  many  years. 

She  compared  herself  with  him  and  with  the  other 


122  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

people  in  Varmland.  They  were  all  as  unsophis- 
ticated children.  They  followed  every  fancy  that 
drew  them.  They  lived  only  a  superficial  life,  and 
had  never  analyzed  the  depths  of  their  souls.  But 
she  was  different,  as  one  does  become  by  living 
in  the  world;  she  could  never  give  herself  wholly 
to  anything.  If  she  loved — yes,  whatever  it  was 
she  did — it  seemed  as  if  one-half  of  herself  stood 
and  looked  on  with  a  cold,  scornful  smile.  She  had 
longed  for  a  passion  that  should  sweep  her  away  in 
unhesitating  surrender.  And  now  he  had  come,  the 
mighty  victor.  When  she  kissed  Gosta  Berling  on 
the  balcony,  she  had  forgotten  herself  for  the  first 
time. 

And  now  it  came  over  her  again,  and  her  heart 
beat  so  that  she  heard  it.  Would  she  never  regain 
the  mastery  over  her  limbs?  She  felt  a  mad  delight 
in  being  thrust  out  from  her  home.  Now  she  would 
be  Gosta's  without  doubting.  How  foolish  she  had 
been  to  force  and  bridle  her  love  all  these  years. 
Oh,  it  was  glorious  to  give  way  to  it,  to  feel  her 
blood  rush  madly  along.  But  would  she  never,  never 
be  freed  from  those  chains  of  ice?  She  had  been  icy 
hearted  and  yet  fiery  on  the  surface  all  her  life;  now 
she  was  changed,  she  had  a  fiery  soul  in  a  body  of 
ice. 

Then  Gosta  felt  two  arms  slip  round  his  neck  in 
a  weak,  almost  powerless  caress.  He  could  only  just 
feel  it,  but  Marienne  meant  to  give  expression  to 


THE   BALL  AT  EKEBY  123 

all  the  repressed  feeling  within  her  by  a  passionate 
embrace. 

When  Beerencreutz  saw  this,  he  let  the  horse  find 
its  own  path  on  the  well-known  road,  while  he  gazed 
obstinately  and  continuously  at  the  "  Seven  Sisters." 


The  Old  Carriages 

FRIENDS,  if  it  should  happen  that  you  read 
this  at  night,  as  I  write  it,  you  must  not  draw  a 
breath  of  relief  and  imagine  that  the  good  cavaliers 
were  allowed  to  sleep  undisturbed,  after  they  arrived 
home  with  Marienne,  and  had  arranged  a  comfort- 
able bed  for  her  in  the  best  guest-chamber,  opening 
out  of  the  grand  salon. 

They  went  to  bed,  and  they  went  to  sleep ;  but 
theirs  was  not  the  good  fortune  to  sleep  in  peace 
and  quietness  till  midday,  as  it  might  have  been 
ours,  dear  reader,  if  we  had  been  up  till  four  o'clock 
and  our  limbs  ached  wearily. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  during  that  time  the 
Lady  of  Ekeby  was  wandering  about  the  country 
with  a  beggar's  scrip  and  staff,  and  that  it  never  had 
been  her  way,  when  there  was  anything  to  be  done, 
to  wait  for  the  convenience  of  tired  wrong-doers. 
She  was  never  less  likely  to  do  so  than  on  that  night, 
for  she  had  determined  to  turn  the  cavaliers  out  of 
Ekeby. 

The  time  was  past  and  gone  when  she  sat  in  splen- 
dor and  might  at  Ekeby,  and  sowed  joy  over  the 
earth  as  God  sows  the  stars  over  the  sky.  And  while 
she  wandered  homeless  over  the  country,  the  honor 
and  glory  of  the  great  estate  lay  in  the  hands  of  the 
cavaliers,  to  be  guarded  by  them  as  the  wind  guards 


THE  OLD  CARRIAGES  125 

the  ash-heap  and  the  spring  sunshine  cherishes  the 
snowdrifts. 

Sometimes  it  happened  that  the  cavaliers  drove 
out  six  or  eight  together  in  their  long  sledge,  tan- 
dem, with  sleigh-bells  and  flowing  reins,  and  if  they 
met  the  Major's  wife  they  did  not  hang  their  heads. 
The  noisy  party  stretched  out  clenched  fists  at  her; 
a  sudden  turn  of  the  sledge  obliged  her  to  plunge 
deep  into  the  snowdrifts,  and  Major  Fuchs,  the 
great  bear  hunter,  always  thought  it  necessary  to 
spit  three  times  as  a  safeguard  against  the  evil  omen 
of  such  a  meeting. 

They  had  no  pity  for  her.  She  was  to  them  awitch, 
as  she  went  about  the  roadways,  and  if  misfortune 
had  overtaken  her,  they  would  have  cared  no  more 
than  he  who  on  Easter  Eve  fires  off  his  gun  and 
hits  a  witch  flying  past  on  her  broomstick. 

It  had  become  a  matter  of  conscience  with  them, 
poor  cavaliers, to  persecute  the  Major's  wife.  People 
so  often  have  been  cruel  and  have  persecuted  one 
another  pitilessly  in  trying  to  save  their  own  souls. 

When, late  at  night,  the  cavaliers  turned  from  the 
drinking-table  to  the  window,  to  see  if  the  night 
was  calm  and  starlit,  they  often  saw  a  dark  shadow 
glide  over  the  courtyard,  and  they  knew  that  the 
Lady  of  Ekeby  had  come  to  look  again  at  her  dear 
house,  and  then  the  cavaliers'  wing  shook  with  the 
scornful  shouts  of  the  old  sinners,  and  mocking 
words  were  thrown  at  her  from  the  open  window. 


126  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

In  truth,  pride  and  selfishness  were  ruining  the 
hearts  of  the  poor  adventurers.  Sintram  had  instilled 
hate  into  them,  and  they  could  not  have  been  in 
greater  danger  if  the  Major's  wife  had  remained  at 
Ekeby.  More  die  in  the  flight  than  on  the  field  of 
battle. 

She  did  not  cherish  any  great  anger  against  the 
men.  Had1  the  power  been  hers,  she  would  have 
punished  them  as  you  whip  unruly  boys,  and  then 
received  them  into  favor  again.  But  she  feared  for 
the  well-beingof  her  beloved  home,  left  in  the  hands 
of  the  cavaliers,  to  be  guarded  as  the  wolf  guards  the 
sheepfold  and  the  storks  guard  the  spring  seed. 

There  are  many  who  have  suffered  in  the  same 
way.  She  was  not  alone  in  seeing  ruin  descend  over 
the  beloved  home,  and  feeling  despair  when  the 
cherished  homestead  fell  to  pieces.  Many  have  seen 
the  home  of  their  childhood  return  their  gaze  like  a 
wounded  animal.  Many  have  felt  themselves  guilty 
when  they  have  seen  the  old  trees  dying  away  in 
the  grasp  of  the  lichens  and  the  garden  walks  cov- 
ered with  grass.  They  could  have  fallen  upon  their 
knees  before  the  fields,  which  formerly  were  covered 
with  rich  harvests,  and  begged  them  not  to  blame 
them  for  their  shameful  condition.  And  they  turn 
away  from  the  poor  old  horses;  some  one  braver 
must  meet  their  eyes.  And  they  do  not  dare  stand 
at  the  yard  gate  and  see  the  cows  returning  from 
pasture. 


THE  OLD  CARRIAGES  127 

No  place  on  earth  is  so  wretched  to  enter  upon  as 
a  ruined  home. 

Oh,  I  beg  you — you  who  guard  the  fields  and 
meadows  and  parks  and  the  happy  flower-gardens 
— guard  them  well !  With  love  and  work !  It  is  not 
well  that  Nature  should  sorrow  over  mankind. 

And  when  I  think  how  this  proud  Ekeby  suf- 
fered under  the  cavaliers'  management,!  could  wish 
that  Fru  Samzelius  had  gained  her  desire  and  turned 
them  out  of  Ekeby.  It  was  not  her  wish  to  under- 
take the  management  herself  again.  She  had  only 
one  intention — to  free  her  home  from  those  mad 
creatures,  those  robbers,  those  locusts,  after  whose 
passage  no  good  seed  could  grow. 

While  she  wandered  over  the  country  and  lived 
on  alms,  her  thoughts  were  constantly  with  her 
mother,  and  the  feeling  that  no  improvement  of  her 
lot  was  possible  until  her  mother's  curse  was  lifted 
gained  firm  hold  in  her  mind. 

No  one  had  ever  spoken  of  her  death,  so  she 
was  probably  still  alive  at  the  forge  in  the  Alfdal 
forests.  Though  ninety  years  old,  she  lived  a  life 
of  unceasing  toil,  watching  over  her  dairy  in  sum- 
mer and  the  charcoal-burning  in  winter,  constantly 
working  and  longing  for  the  end  of  her  life's  mis- 
sion. 

And  the  Major's  wife  felt  that  her  mother  had 
been  living  all  those  years  to  be  enabled  at  length  to 
lift  the  curse  from  her  shoulders.  The  mother  could 


ia8  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

not  find  it  in  her  heart  to  die,  who  had  called  down 
such  trouble  on  her  child. 

And  the  Major's  wife  longed  to  go  to  her,  so  that 
they  both  might  secure  peace.  She  would  wander 
through  the  dark  forests,  beside  the  shores  of  the 
long  river,  till  she  reached  the  house  of  her  youth. 
She  could  have  no  rest  till  she  had  done  that.  There 
were  many  who  offered  her  a  warm  home  and  all 
the  gifts  of  faithful  friendship  in  those  days,  but  she 
would  not  stay.  Surly  and  angry,  she  went  from  one 
estate  to  another,  for  she  was  oppressed  by  the  curse. 

She  would  go  to  her  mother,  but  she  must  put  her 
house  in  order.  She  was  not  going  to  leave  it  in  the 
hands  of  such  careless  spendthrifts,  drinkers,  and 
wasteful  destroyers  of  God's  good  gifts. 

Was  she  to  go  away  and  find  her  inheritance 
dissipated  on  her  return,  her  foundries  standing 
silent,  her  horses  worn  out,  and  her  servants  scat- 
tered abroad?  Oh,  no;  once  more  she  would  rise  in 
strength,  and  turn  out  the  cavaliers  from  Ekeby. 

She  understood  very  well  how  happy  her  husband 
felt  in  seeing  the  estates  being  ruined.  But  she  knew 
him  well  enough  to  be  sure  that  if  she  once  could 
drive  away  these  locusts,  he  would  be  too  indifferent 
to  find  new  ones.  If  the  cavaliers  were  sent  away, 
her  old  bailiff  would  manage  Ekeby  on  the  old  lines. 

And  thus  her  shadow  had  often  been  seen  on 
the  dark  roads  about  the  foundries.  She  had  crept 
in  and  out  of  the  crofters'  huts,  and  had  whispered 


THE  OLD  CARRIAGES  129 

with  the  millers  and  the  carters  in  the  lower  story 
of  the  water-mill,  and  had  consulted  with  the  black- 
smiths in  the  dark  forges. 

They  had  all  sworn  to  help  her.  The  honor  and 
glory  of  the  old  estate  should  not  be  left  any  longer 
in  the  hands  of  the  careless  cavaliers,  to  be  guarded 
by  them  as  the  wind  cherishes  the  ashes  and  the 
wolf  the  sheepfold. 

And  on  the  night  when  the  gay  gentlemen  had 
danced  and  laughed  and  drunk,  till,  dead  tired,  they 
had  thrown  themselves  on  their  beds,  on  that  night 
they  were  to  be  turned  out  of  Ekeby. 

She  let  them  enjoy  themselves.  She  sat  in  the 
forge  and  waited  for  the  conclusion  of  the  ball.  She 
had  waited  even  longer,  till  the  cavaliers  returned 
from  their  expedition,  waiting  in  silent  expectation 
till  it  was  told  her  that  the  last  light  had  been  ex- 
tinguished in  the  cavaliers'  wing  and  that  the  great 
house  slept.  Then  she  arose  and  went  out.  It  was 
already  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  but  the  dark 
starlit  February  night  still  hung  over  the  earth. 

The  Major's  wife  commanded  that  all  the  people 
should  assemble  round  the  cavaliers' wing;  she  went 
herself  to  the  chief  entrance,  knocked,  and  was  ad- 
mitted. The  young  daughter  of  the  Broby  parson, 
whom  she  had  brought  up  to  be  a  trusty  servant, 
met  her. 

"My  lady  is  heartily  welcome,"  she  said,  and 
kissed  her  hand. 


1 3o  COST  A  BERLING'S  SAGA 

"Put  out  that  light,"  commanded  the  Major's 
wife.  "  Do  you  think  I  cannot  find  my  way  here 
without  a  light?' 

And  she  began  a  silent  tour  of  inspection  through 
the  quiet  house.  She  went  from  cellar  to  garret,  and 
said  good-by  to  it  all.  With  stealthy  footsteps  they 
moved  from  room  to  room. 

The  Major's  wife  held  communion  with  her 
memories ;  the  servant  neither  sighed  nor  sobbed, 
but  tear  after  tear  fell  unheeded  from  her  eyes  as 
she  followed  her  mistress.  The  silver  cupboard  and 
the  linen  presses  were  opened,  and  the  Lady  of 
Ekeby  passed  her  hand  lovingly  over  the  fine  white 
damask  cloths  and  the  splendid  silver  tankards,  and 
over  the  huge  pile  of  feather  bolsters  in  the  maid's 
store-room.  She  must  touch  and  handle  everything, 
all  the  looms  and  spinning-wheels,  and  she  probed 
the  contents  of  the  spice  cupboard,  and  felt  the 
lines  of  tallow  candles  which  hung  from  a  pole  in 
the  kitchen  ceiling.  "They  are  quite  dry,"  she  said; 
"they  could  be  taken  down  and  laid  away." 

She  went  down  to  the  wine-cellar,  tilted  up  the 
wine-casks  gently,  and  ran  her  fingers  over  the  rows 
of  bottles.  She  was  in  the  buttery  and  kitchen.  She 
examined  it  all,  and  put  out  her  hand  in  farewell  to 
all  in  her  house. 

Lastly  she  entered  the  living-rooms.  In  the  din- 
ing-room she  placed  her  hand  on  the  wide  flaps  of 
the  big  table. 


THE  OLD  CARRIAGES  131 

"There  are  many  who  have  eaten  plentifully  at 
this  board,"  she  said.  And  thus  she  went  through 
all  the  rooms.  She  found  the  long  wide  sofas  in  their 
places,  and  she  felt  the  cold  surface  of  the  marble 
tables  borne  up  by  the  gilded  griffins  which  sup- 
ported the  long  mirrors  with  their  trio  of  dancing 
goddesses. 

"This  is  a  rich  house," she  said.  "He was  a  splen- 
did man  who  gave  me  all  this  to  rule  over." 

In  the  salon,  where  the  dancing  had  lately  been 
so  gay,  the  stiff-backed  chairs  were  ranged  in  order 
round  the  walls.  There  she  went  to  the  piano  and 
gently  struck  a  note.  "Even  in  my  time  there  was 
no  lack  of  gaiety  and  laughter  here,"  she  said. 

She  also  entered  the  best  guest-chamber  open- 
ing from  the  salon.  It  was  quite  dark  in  there,  and 
in  feeling  her  way  she  touched  the  face  of  her  com- 
panion. 

"  Are  you  crying  ? ' '  she  asked,  as  she  felt  her  fin- 
gers wet  with  tears. 

The  young  girl  burst  into  sobs. 

"My  lady,"  she  cried,  "my  lady,  they  will  ruin 
everything.  Why  do  you  leave  us  and  let  the  cava- 
liers ruin  your  house?' 

Then  the  Major's  wife  drew  up  the  blind  and 
pointed  out  into  the  yard. 

"Have  I  ever  taught  you  to  weep  and  moan?' 
she  cried.  "Look  out,  the  yard  is  full  of  men;  to- 
morrow there  won't  be  a  cavalier  left  in  Ekeby." 


i32  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

"And  my  lady  is  returning  to  us?"  asked  the 


My  time  has  not  come  yet,"  answered  the  Ma- 
jor's wife.  "  The  roadway  must  still  be  my  home  and 
the  strawstack  my  bed,  but  you  shall  guard  Ekeby 
for  me  till  I  come." 

And  they  went  on.  Neither  of  them  knew  that 
Marienne  was  sleeping  in  that  room.  But  she  was 
not  asleep.  She  was  wide  awake,  had  heard  and 
understood  all.  She  had  been  lying  on  her  bed,  lost 
in  a  reverie  of  love. 

"Thou  Mighty  One,"  she  said,  "who  hast  lifted 
me  above  myself!  I  lay  in  the  deepest  misery,  and 
thou  hast  turned  it  to  Paradise.  My  hands  were 
wounded  on  the  iron  latch  of  the  barred  door,  and 
my  tears  lay  frozen  on  the  threshold  of  my  home. 
Hate  froze  my  heart  when  I  heard  the  blows  my 
mother  received,  and  I  tried  to  sleep  away  my  anger 
in  the  snowdrift,  but  Thou  hast  come  to  me.  Oh, 
Love,  thou  child  of  fire,  thou  hast  come  to  one  who 
has  been  frozen  to  the  heart.  If  I  compare  my  misery 
with  the  blessedness  I  have  from  it,  the  misery  is 
nothing.  I  am  freed  from  all  ties  ;  I  have  no  father, 
no  mother,  no  home.  Men  will  turn  from  me  and 
believe  ill  of  me.  Well,  it  is  thy  will,  oh,  Love,  for 
why  should  I  stand  higher  than  my  beloved?  Hand 
in  hand  we  will  go  forth  into  the  world.  Gosta  Ber- 
ling's  bride  is  a  poor  girl.  He  found  me  in  the  snow- 
drifts. So  let  us  make  our  home  together,  not  in  wide 


THE  OLD  CARRIAGES  133 

halls,  but  in  a  cotter's  hut  in  the  forest  clearing.  I 
shall  help  him  to  watch  the  charcoal-stacks.  I  shall 
help  him  to  set  traps  for  haresand  partridges.  I  shall 
cook  his  food  and  mend  his  clothes.  Oh,  my  beloved 
— shall  I  feel  lonely  and  sad  when  I  sit  there  watch- 
ing for  you?  I  shall — I  shall,  but  not  for  the  days 
of  riches.  Only  for  thee,  only  for  thee  shall  I  long, 
and  hope  for  thy  footsteps  on  the  forest  path,  for 
thy  glad  song  as  thou  comest  home  with  thine  axe 
over  thy  shoulder.  Oh,  my  beloved,  my  beloved,  as 
long  as  I  live  will  I  wait  for  thee!' 

Thus  lying  and  composing  a  hymn  to  the  all- 
conquering  God  of  Love,  she  had  not  closed  her 
eyes  when  the  Major's  wife  came  in. 

When  they  had  left  the  room,  Marienne  rose  and 
dressed  herself  again.  Once  more  she  put  on  the 
black  velvet  dress  and  the  thin  dancing-shoes.  She 
wrapped  the  bedcover  round  her  as  a  shawl,  and 
hurried  out  once  more  in  the  awful  night. 

Quiet,  starlit,  and  bitterly  cold,  the  February 
night  still  rested  upon  theearth.lt  seemed  as  though 
it  would  never  end,  and  the  darkness  and  cold  which 
it  spread  abroad  that  night  lasted  long,  long  after 
the  sun  rose  again,  long  after  the  drifts  which  Mari- 
enne trampled  through  had  melted  into  air. 

Marienne  hurried  away  for  help.  She  could  not 
allow  the  men  who  had  rescued  her,  had  opened 
their  hearts  and  home  to  her,  to  be  hunted  out  of 
Ekeby.  She  would  go  to  Sjo,  to  Major  Samzelius. 


i34  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

She  must  hurry,  it  would  take  her  an  hour  to  get 
back. 

When  the  Lady  of  Ekeby  had  said  farewell  to 
her  home,  she  went  down  to  the  courtyard,  and  the 
strife  round  the  cavaliers'  wing  began. 

She  placed  the  people  round  the  tall,  narrow 
building,  the  second  story  of  which  was  famous  as 
being  the  home  of  the  cavaliers.  In  the  biggest  room 
there,  with  its  plaster  walls  and  the  large  chests 
painted  red  and  the  enormous  folding-table  where 
the  cards  were  swimming  about  in  the  spilt  wine, 
on  the  wide  beds,  hidden  behind  the  yellow-striped 
curtains,  slept  the  cavaliers. 

And  in  the  stables  before  their  full  mangers  slept 
the  cavaliers'  horses,  and  dreamed  of  their  youthful 
exploits.  How  happy  in  those  restful  days  to  dream 
of  the  wild  feats  of  their  youth!  of  their  journeys  to 
the  horse-market,  where  they  stood  day  and  night 
under  the  open  sky ;  of  sharp  canters  from  early  ser- 
vice on  Christmas  morning;  of  trial  races  before  ex- 
changing owners,  when  drunken  men,  amid  a  rain 
of  cutting  blows,  leaned  far  out  of  their  vehicles, and 
swore  fiercely  in  their  ears.  Happy  so  to  dream, 
when  they  know  they  will  never  leave  the  full  man- 
gers and  the  warm  stalls  of  Ekeby! 

In  the  old  coach-house,  where  the  broken  chaises 
and  discarded  sledges  are  placed,  there  is  a  wonder- 
ful assemblage  of  old  vehicles.  There  are  small  hand- 
sledges  and  ice-hilling  sledges  painted  in  green  and 


THE  OLD  CARRIAGES  135 

red  and  gold.  There  stands  the  first  cariole  seen  in 
Varmland,  brought  there  by  Beerencreutz  as  spoil 
from  the  war  of  1814.  There  are  every  conceivable 
kind  of  shay  and  chaise  with  swaying  springs  — 
post-chaises, extraordinary  vehicles  of  torturing  con- 
struction, with  their  seats  resting  on  wooden  springs. 
They  are  all  there,  all  the  murderous  types  of  equi- 
pages which  have  been  sung  about  in  the  times 
of  road  travelling.  And  there  also  stands  the  long 
sledge  which  holds  all  the  twelve  cavaliers,  and 
poor,  frozen,  old  Cousin  KristofFer's  covered  sledge, 
and  Orneclou's  family  sledge  with  the  moth-eaten 
bear-skin  cover  and  the  worn  crest  on  the  splash- 
board, and  the  racing  sledges — innumerable  racing 
sledges. 

Many  are  the  cavaliers  who  lived  and  died  at 
Ekeby.  Their  names  are  forgotten,  and  they  have 
no  place  any  longer  in  people's  hearts;  but  the 
Major's  wife  has  gathered  together  all  the  old  car- 
riages in  which  they  arrived  at  Ekeby,  and  preserved 
them  in  the  old  coach-house. 

They  also  sleep  and  dream,  and  let  the  dust 
gather  thickly  over  them.  They  never  dream  to 
leave  Ekeby  again  —  never  again.  So  the  leather 
bursts  in  the  footbags,  and  the  wheels  fall  to  pieces, 
and  the  wood-work  rots — the  old  carriages  don't 
want  to  live  any  longer,  they  want  to  die. 

But  on  that  February  night  the  Lady  of  Ekeby 
ordered  the  coach-house  to  be  opened,  and,  by  the 


136  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

light  of  torches  and  lanterns,  she  ordered  the  car- 
nages belonging  to  the  present  set  of  Ekeby  cava- 
liers to  be  brought  out — Beerencreutz's  old  cariole 
and  Orneclou's  crested  vehicle  and  the  covered 
sledge  which  protected  Cousin  Kristoffer.  She  cared 
not  whether  the  vehicle  was  intended  for  winter  or 
summer  use;  she  was  only  careful  each  should  get 
his  own. 

And  the  old  horses,  which  have  been  dreaming 
before  their  full  mangers,  they  are  also  awakened. 

Dreams  shall  for  once  come  true. 

Again  you  shall  make  trial  of  the  steep  hillside, 
and  the  mouldy  hay  in  the  shed  of  the  village  inn, 
and  the  cut  of  the  drunken  horse-seller's  whip,  and 
the  mad  racing  over  the  slippery  ice  which  you 
tremble  to  stand  upon. 

When  the  tiny  grey  Norwegian  horses  were  har- 
nessed to  a  tall,  spindle-like  chaise,  and  the  big, 
bony,  riding-horses  to  the  low  racing  sledges,  they 
were  quite  in  keeping.  The  old  animals  snorted  when 
the  bits  were  forced  into  their  toothless  mouths,  the 
old  vehicles  groaned  and  creaked.  Brittle  infirm- 
ity, which  ought  to  rest  in  quiet  till  the  end  of  the 
worjd,was  brought  out  to  the  sight  of  all ;  stiff  mus- 
cles, lame  forefeet,  spavin,  and  strangles  were  shown 
in  the  light  of  day. 

The  stablemen  did  manage  at  last  to  harness 
the  horses  to  the  old  vehicles,  and  then  asked  their 
mistress  in  which  vehicle  Gosta  Berling  should  be 


THE  OLD  CARRIAGES  137 

placed,  for,  as  you  know,  Gosta  Berling  was  brought 
to  Ekeby  in  Fru  Samzelius'  own  sledge. 

"Harness  Don  Juan  to  our  best  racing  sledge," 
she  commanded,  "and  spread  the  bear-skin  cover 
with  the  silver  claws  over  it."  And  when  the  groom 
objected — "There  isn't  a  horse  in  my  stable  I 
wouldn't  give  to  be  freed  from  that  man.  Do  you 
understand?' 

So  the  horses  and  carriages  are  ready,  but  the  cava- 
liers are  still  asleep. 

Now  it  is  their  turn  to  be  brought  out  into  the 
wintry  night,  but  it  is  a  more  daring  exploit  to  take 
them  in  their  beds  than  to  bring  out  the  stiff  old 
horses  and  the  rattling  old  carriages.  They  are  dar- 
ing, strong,  fearful  men,  hardened  by  a  hundred 
adventures.  They  will  resist  to  the  death,  and  it  will 
be  no  easy  task  to  take  them  in  their  beds,  and  bring 
them  down  to  the  vehicles  which  are  to  convey 
them  away. 

The  Major's  wife  commanded  that  a  stack  of 
straw  standing  near  should  be  set  on  fire,  so  that 
the  light  might  shine  into  the  cavaliers'  room. 

"  The  straw  is  mine — all  Ekeby  is  mine,"  she  said. 

And  when  the  strawstack  was  in  flames,  she  cried, 
"Wake  them  now."  But  the  cavaliers  slept  on  be- 
hind firmly  closed  doors.  The  crowd  raised  that 
fearful,  frightful  cry,  "Fire!  Fire!"  — but  the  cav- 
aliers slept. 

The  heavy  hammers  of  the  master  blacksmith 


138  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

struck  against  the  outer  door  in  vain;  a  hard  snow- 
ball broke  a  window-pane  and  flew  into  the  room, 
striking  the  curtains  of  a  bed — but  the  cavaliers 
slept  soundly. 

They  dream  a  lovely  girl  throws  her  handker- 
chief to  them,  they  dream  of  the  applause  before  the 
curtain  of  the  theatre,  they  dream  of  gay  laughter 
and  the  deafening  noise  of  the  midnight  carouse. 
It  would  require  a  cannon  shot  at  their  ear,  a  sea 
of  icy  water,  to  awaken  them. 

They  have  sung  and  danced  and  played  and 
acted;  they  are  heavy  with  wine,  their  strength  is 
gone;  they  sleep  a  sleep  as  deep  as  death. 

That  blessed  sleep  nearly  saved  them. 

The  people  began  to  believe  the  silence  hid  some 
menace.  It  might  be  that  the  cavaliers  were  away 
seeking  help.  It  might  mean  that  they  were  stand- 
ing on  guard,  with  their  ringers  on  the  triggers 
of  their  guns,  behind  the  doors  and  the  windows, 
ready  to  shoot  down  the  first  man  who  entered. 

The  cavaliers  were  cunning  and  warlike  men; 
there  must  be  some  meaning  in  the  strange  silence. 
Who  could  believe  it  of  them  that  they  would  allow 
themselves  to  be  surprised  like  a  bear  in  a  hole. 

The  crowd  shouted  "  Fire !  Fire ! '  time  after 
time,  without  any  result.  Then,  when  they  were  all 
trembling,  the  Major's  wife  took  an  axe,  and  broke 
open  the  outer  door. 

Then,  alone,  she  sprang  upstairs,  tore  open  the 


THE  OLD  CARRIAGES  139 

door  of  the  cavaliers*  wing,  and  screamed  again, 
"Fire!  Fire!" 

That  voice  echoed  more  clearly  in  the  minds  of 
the  cavaliers  than  all  the  shouting  of  the  crowd.  Ac- 
customed to  obey  its  commands,  twelve  men  sprang 
up  out  of  their  beds,  saw  the  glare  on  the  windows, 
snatched  up  their  clothes,  and  sprang  down  the 
stairs  into  the  yard. 

But  there,in  the  doorway,stood  the  master  smith 
and  two  big  carters,  and  great  disgrace  overtook 
the  cavaliers.  As  one  by  one  they  came  down,  they 
were  caught,  thrown  to  the  ground,  their  feet  were 
tied,  and  they  were  borne  away  to  the  carriage  which 
was  destined  for  them. 

Not  one  escaped — they  were  all  caught.  Beeren- 
creutz,  the  fierce  colonel,  was  tied  and  carried  away 
as  well  as  Kristian  Bergh,  the  strong  captain,  and 
Uncle  Eberhard,  the  philosopher. 

Even  the  unconquerable,  greatly  feared  Gosta 
Berling  was  overpowered.  The  Major's  wife  had 
succeeded;  she  was,  after  all,  stronger  than  the  cav- 
aliers. 

It  was  pitiful  to  see  them  as  they  sat  bound  on 
the  vehicles.  Hanging  heads  and  fierce  glances  were 
to  be  seen — the  courtyard  echoed  with  oaths  and 
wild  bursts  of  impotent  rage. 

The  Lady  of  Ekeby  went  from  one  to  another. 

"You  are  to  swear,"  she  said,  "never  to  return 
to  Ekeby." 


140  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

"  Begone,  you  witch ! ' 

"You  shall  swear,"  she  repeated, "or  I  will  throw 
you,  bound  as  you  are,  into  the  cavaliers'  wing,  and 
you  shall  die  there  to-night,  for  I  will  burn  down 
the  cavaliers'  wing  as  sure  as  I  live." 

"You  dare  not." 

*c  Dare  not?  Is  n't  Ekeby  mine?  Oh,  you  scoun- 
drels! Don't  you  think  I  remember  how  you  spat 
after  me  on  the  roadside?  I  should  like  to  set  fire 
to  the  building  even  now,  and  let  you  all  burn.  Did 
you  lift  a  hand  to  help  me  when  I  was  turned  out 
of  my  home?  No,  swear  now!' 

And  she  looked  furious,  though  perhaps  she 
pretended  to  be  more  angry  than  she  really  was, 
and  so  many  men  with  axes  stood  around  her,  the 
cavaliers  were  obliged  .to  swear. 

Then  she  ordered  their  clothes  and  boxes  to  be 
brought  out  and  their  hands  to  be  untied,  and  the 
reins  were  placed  between  their  fingers. 

But  time  had  passed,  and  Marienne  had  reached 
Sjo  before  this. 

The  Major  was  no  late  sleeper,  he  was  up  and 
dressed  when  she  came.  She  met  him  in  the  yard; 
he  had  been  to  give  his  bears  their  breakfast. 

He  did  not  say  much  to  her  news,  only  went  back 
to  his  bears,  tied  a  nose-rope  to  each,  led  them  out, 
and  hurried  away  in  the  direction  of  Ekeby. 

Marienne  followed  him  at  a  distance.  She  was 
ready  to  fall,  she  was  so  tired,  but  she  saw  a  bright 


THE  OLD  CARRIAGES  141 

flare  of  fire  in  the  sky,  and  that  nearly  frightened 
her  to  death. 

What  a  night  that  had  been !  A  man  had  beaten 
his  wife,  and  left  his  daughter  to  freeze  to  death 
outside  his  doors.  Did  a  woman  intend  now  to  burn 
her  enemies  to  death?  Did  the  old  Major  intend  to 
set  his  bears  upon  his  own  people? 

She  conquered  her  weakness,  passed  the  Major, 
and  ran  wildly  to  Ekeby. 

She  was  well  ahead  of  him.  She  gained  the 
courtyard  and  pushed  her  way  among  the  crowd. 
When  she  gained  the  centre  and  stood  face  to  face 
with  the  Major's  wife,  she  cried  as  loudly  as  she 
could,  "The  Major!  The  Major  is  coming  with  his 
bears!"- 

There  was  great  alarm  among  the  people;  all  eyes 
turned  to  the  Major's  wife. 

You  went  for  him,"  she  said  to  Marienne. 
Fly,"  cried  Marienne,  still  more  eagerly.  "  Fly, 
for  God's  sake !  I  don't  know  what  the  Major  will 
do,  but  he  has  the  bears  with  him." 

All  stood  with  their  eyes  fastened  upon  the  Ma- 
jor's wife. 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  assistance,  my  children," 
she  said,  calmly,  to  the  people.  "All  has  been  so 
arranged  that  you  cannot  be  taken  to  task  for  this 
night's  doings,  nor  will  they  harm  you  in  any  way. 
Go  home  now !  I  don't  wish  to  see  any  of  my  people 
kill  or  be  killed.  Go  now!" 


cc 
cc 


142  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

The  people  stood  motionless. 

The  Major's  wife  turned  to  Marienne. 

"I  know  you  love,"  she  said;  uyou  have  acted 
in  the  madness  of  love.  May  the  day  never  come 
when  you  are  powerless  to  prevent  the  ruin  of  your 
home!  May  you  ever  bemistress  of  yourown  tongue 
and  your  own  hand  when  anger  fills  your  soul!' 

"  My  children,  follow  me,"  she  said,  turning  to 
the  people.  "  May  God  guard  Ekeby,  I  go  to  my 
mother.  Oh,  Marienne!  when  you  have  regained 
your  senses,  when  Ekeby  is  destroyed,  and  all  the 
country  groans  in  famine,  think  then  of  your  doings 
this  night,  and  take  pity  on  the  people!' 

Ana!  she  left  the  courtyard,  followed  by  all  the 
crowd. 

When  the  Major  arrived  he  found  not  a  living 
soul  besides  Marienne  and  a  long  row  of  horses 
harnessed  to  old  vehicles  —  a  long,  wretched  line 
of  them,  where  the  horses  were  not  worse  than  the 
carriages,  nor  the  carriages  worse  than  their  owners. 
They  had  all  fared  hardly  in  life. 

Marienne  went  forward  and  unbound  the  cava- 
liers. She  saw  how  they  bit  their  lips  and  would  not 
meet  her  eyes.  They  were  ashamed  as  never  before. 
They  had  never  been  so  degraded  in  their  lives. 

"I  was  not  better  off  when  I  lay  on  my  knees 
on  the  steps  at  Bjorne  a  few  hours  ago,"  said  Mari- 
enne. 

And  so,  dear  reader,  I  will  not  try  to  describe 


THE  OLD  CARRIAGES  143 

the  farther  events  of  that  night  —  how  the  old  car- 
riages went  back  to  the  coach-house,  and  the  old 
horses  to  their  stalls,  and  the  cavaliers  to  the  cav- 
aliers' wing.  The  dawn  began  to  spread  itself  over 
the  eastern  hills,  and  the  day  came  bringing  quiet- 
ness and  calm.  How  much  quieter  are  the  bright, 
sunny  days  than  the  dark  nights,  under  whose  shel- 
tering wing  the  wild  beasts  hunt  and  the  owls  hoot ! 

Only  this  I  must  add :  when  the  cavaliers  came 
upstairs  again,  and  they  found  a  few  drops  in  the 
punch-bowl  still  to  pour  into  their  glasses,  a  sud- 
den enthusiasm  swept  over  them. 

"Skal,  for  the  Major's  wife!"  they  cried. 

Oh,  she  was  a  mighty  woman !  What  better  could 
they  desire  than  to  serve  and  adore  her! 

Was  it  not  awful  that  the  devil  had  such  power 
over  her,  and  all  she  lived  for  was  to  send  cavaliers' 
souls  to  hell? 


The  Qreat  "Bear  of  Qurlita 

IN  the  forest  live  evil  beasts,  whose  jaws  are  armed 
with  dreadful  gleaming  teeth  or  sharp  beaks, 
whose  feet  have  sharp  claws  that  long  to  fasten  upon 
a  living  throat,  and  whose  eyes  glimmer  with  the 
lust  of  murder. 

There  live  the  wolves,  which  come  out  at  night, 
and  give  chase  to  the  peasant's  sledge,  till  the  mother 
must  take  the  child  sitting  on  her  knee  and  throw 
it  out  to  save  her  own  life  and  her  husband's. 

There  lives  the  lynx,  which  the  people  call  the 
"  big  cat,"  for  it  is  dangerous  to  speak  of  it  by  its 
right  name,  in  the  forest  at  least.  He  who  has  talked 
of  it  during  the  daytime  had  better  see  to  the  doors 
and  air-holes  of  his  sheepfold  at  night,  or  it  will 
find  its  way  thither.  It  climbs  up  the  wall,  for  its 
claws  are  as  sharp  as  steel  tacks,  glides  through 
the  narrow  opening,  and  throws  itself  upon  the 
sheep.  And  it  clings  upon  their  necks,  and  drinks 
the  blood  out  of  the  jugular  vein,  and  kills  and  de- 
stroys till  every  sheep  is  dead.  It  does  not  stay  its 
wild  death-dance  among  the  terrified  animals  while 
any  of  them  show  a  sign  of  life. 

And  in  the  morning  the  peasant  finds  all  his  sheep 
dead  with  mangled  throats,  for  the  big  cat  leaves 
nothing  living  where  it  ravages. 

In  the  forest,  too, lives  the  great  owl,  which  hoots 


GREAT  BEAR  OF  GURLITA  CLIFF    145 

at  twilight.  If  you  anger  him,  then  he  swoops  down 
upon  you,  and  tears  out  your  eyes,  for  he  is  not  a 
real  bird,  but  an  evil  spirit. 

And  there,  too,  lives  the  most  terrible  of  all  the 
forest  beasts  —  the  bear,  which  has  the  strength  of 
twelve  men,  and,  when  once  he  has  become  blood- 
thirsty, can  only  be  killed  by  a  silver  bullet. 

Can  anything  give  a  beast  a  nimbus  of  greater 
terror  than  this,  that  he  can  only  be  killed  by  a  sil- 
ver bullet?  What  are  the  secret,  awful  powers  that 
dwell  within  him,  and  make  him  impervious  to  or- 
dinary lead !  A  child  will  lie  awake  many  long  hours, 
shuddering  in  fear  of  the  wicked  beast  which  the 
evil  powers  protect. 

If  you  should  meet  him  in  the  forest,  tall  as  a 
moving  mountain,  you  must  not  run  away  nor  try 
to  defend  yourself;  you  must  throw  yourself  down 
on  the  earth  and  pretend  to  be  dead.  Many  little 
children  have  lain  in  fancy  on  the  ground  with  a 
bear  bending  over  them.  He  has  turned  them  over 
with  his  paw,  and  they  have  felt  his  hot,  panting 
breath  on  their  faces,  but  they  lay  motionless  till 
he  went  away  to  dig  a  hole  to  bury  them  in.  Then 
they  rose  gently  and  crept  away,  first  slowly,  then  in 
wildest  flight.  But  think !  Think  if  the  bear  had  not 
found  them  to  be  really  dead,  but  had  given  them 
a  bite  to  make  sure,  or  if  he  had  been  hungry  and 
had  eaten  them  at  once,  or  if  he  had  seen  them  when 
they  crept  away  and  had  pursued  them!  Oh,  God! 


146  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

Terror  is  a  witch  who  sits  in  the  twilight  of  the 
forests,  and  composes  magic  songs  for  the  ears  of 
men,  and  fills  their  hearts  with  awful  thoughts.  Of 
these  are  born  Fear,  which  burdens  life  and  veils 
the  beauty  of  the  smiling  landscape.  Malicious  is 
Nature,  and  treacherous  as  a  sleeping  serpent,  and 
never  to  be  trusted.  There  lies  the  Lofven  Lake  in 
splendid  beauty,  but  trust  it  not,  it  lies  in  wait  for 
its  prey;  every  year  it  must  receive  its  tribute  of  the 
drowned.  There  lies  the  forest,  enchantingly  peace- 
ful, but  trust  it  not !  The  forest  is  full  of  wicked 
beasts,  possessed  by  the  spirits  of  the  witches  and 
the  souls  of  murderous  villains. 

Trust  not  the  brook  with  its  sweet  waters!  It  has 
sickness  and  death  for  you,  if  you  wade  there  after 
sunset.  Trust  not  the  cuckoo,  which  calls  so  joyfully 
in  spring.  In  autumn  it  changes  into  a  hawk  with 
cruel  eyes  and  awful  claws !  Trust  not  the  moss  nor 
the  heather  nor  the  ledge  of  rock:  all  Nature  is 
evil,  possessed  by  invisible  spirits  which  hate  man- 
kind. There  is  no  place  where  you  can  set  your  foot 
securely,  and  it  is  marvellous  that  feeble  humanity 
can  withstand  so  much  persecution. 

A  witch  is  Terror.  Does  she  still  sit  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  Varmland  forests  and  sing  her  magic 
songs  ?  Does  she  still  darken  the  beauty  of  the  smil- 
ing landscape  and  crush  the  joy  of  life  ?  Great  has  her 
power  been,  I  know  well,  for  I  too  have  had  steel 
put  into  my  cradle  and  a  piece  of  charcoal  into  my 


GREAT  BEAR  OF  GURLITA  CLIFF    147 

bath ;  I  know  it  well,  for  I  have  felt  her  iron  grip 
upon  my  heart. 

But  you  must  not  imagine  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
anything  dreadful.  It  is  only  an  old  story  about  the 
great  bear  of  Gurlita  Cliff,  and  you  are  at  liberty 
to  believe  it  or  not,  as  ought  to  be  the  case  with  all 
true  stories  of  sport. 


The  great  bear  had  his  home  on  the  fine  mountain 
peak  called  Gurlita  Cliff,  which  rose,  precipitous 
and  difficult  of  ascent,  from  the  shore  of  the  Upper 
Lofven. 

The  root  of  an  overturned  pine,  about  which  the 
tufts  of  moss  still  hung,  formed  the  roof  and  walls  of 
his  house.  Pines  and  fir  trees  protected  it,  and  snow 
covered  it  closely.  He  could  lie  there  and  sleep 
a  calm,  sweet  sleep  from  one  summer  to  another. 

Was  he  then  a  poet,  a  gentle  dreamer,  this  shaggy 
forest  king,  this  cross-eyed  robber?  Did  he  wish 
to  sleep  away  the  bleak  night  of  the  cold  winter 
and  its  colorless  days,  to  be  awakened  by  purling 
streams  and  the  songs  of  birds?  Did  he  lie  there  and 
dream  of  the  reddening  whortleberry  banks,  and  of 
the  ant-hills  full  of  brown,  spicy  little  insects,  and 
of  the  white  lambs  that  fed  on  the  green  slopes? 
Would  he,  happy  creature,  escape  life's  winter? 

The  drifting  snow  whirled,  whistling,  among  the 
pine  trees;  the  wolves  and  foxes  were  abroad,  mad- 


148  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

dened  by  hunger.  Why  should  the  bear  alone  slum- 
ber? May  he  arise  and  feel  how  sharply  the  frost 
nips,  and  how  heavy  it  is  to  walk  in  the  deep  snow ! 

He  has  bedded  himself  in  so  well,  he  is  like  the 
sleeping  princess  in  the  fairy  tale.  As  she  was  awak- 
ened to  life  by  love,  so  he  will  be  awakened  by  the 
spring,  by  a  sunbeam  which  finds  its  way  between 
the  branches  and  warms  his  nose,  by  some  drops 
of  water  from  the  melting  snowdrift  which  pene- 
trates his  fur  coat.  Woe  to  him  who  disturbs  him 
before  that  time! 

If  only  any  one  had  inquired  how  the  forest  king 
wished  to  be  awakened !  If  a  shower  of  hail  had 
not  whisked  suddenly  between  the  branches  and 
found  its  way  into  his  skin  like  a  horde  of  angry 
mosquitoes ! 

He  heard  sudden  shouts  and  a  great  noise  and 
shots.  He  flung  the  sleep  from  his  limbs,  and  tore 
aside  the  branches  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  There 
was  work  for  the  old  fighting  champion.  It  was  not 
spring  shouting  and  roaring  outside  his  lair,  nor 
could  it  be  the  wind,  which  sometimes  threw  the 
pine  trees  over  and  whirled  the  snow  about,  but  it 
was  the  cavaliers  —  the  cavaliers  from  Ekeby. 

They  were  old  acquaintances.  He  well  remem- 
bered the  night  when  Beerencreutz  and  Fuchs  sat 
in  ambush  in  a  Nygard  cowshed,  where  a  visit  was 
expected  from  him.  They  had  just  fallen  asleep  over 
their  gin  flasks,  but  woke  up  to  find  he  was  carry- 


GREAT  BEAR  OF  GURLITA  CLIFF    149 

ing  away  the  cow  he  had  killed  out  of  the  stall,  and 
fell  upon  him  with  guns  and  knives.  They  recap- 
tured the  cow,  and  destroyed  one  of  his  eyes,  but 
he  managed  to  escape  alive. 

Yes,  old  acquaintances  were  they !  The  forest  king 
remembered  how  they  came  upon  him  on  another 
occasion,  just  as  he  and  his  royal  consort  and  their 
children  were  lying  down  for  their  winter's  sleep 
in  their  old  castle  on  Gurlita  Cliff.  He  had  escaped, 
sweeping  aside  all  that  came  in  his  path,  and  flee- 
ing without  heeding  the  bullets,  but  he  was  lamed 
for  life  by  a  shot  in  the  thigh,  and  when  he  returned 
at  night  to  his  castle,  he  found  the  snowdyed  red  with 
the  blood  of  his  royal  mate,  and  the  royal  children 
had  been  carried  away  to  the  dwellings  of  men,  there 
to  grow  up  as  their  servants  and  friends. 

The  ground  trembled,  and  the  snowdrift  cover- 
ing the  bear-hole  shook,  as  the  great  bear,  the  cava- 
liers' old  enemy,  broke  out  of  his  lair.  Take  care, 
Fuchs,  old  bear  hunter;  take  care,  Beerencreutz, 
colonel  and  camphio  player;  take  care,  Gosta  Ber- 
ling,  hero  of  a  thousand  adventures! 

Woe  to  all  poets,  all  dreamers,  all  lovers !  There 
stood  Gosta  Berling,  his  finger  on  the  trigger  of  his 
gun,  as  the  bear  went  straight  toward  him.  Why  did 
he  not  shoot?  What  was  he  thinking  of? 

Why  did  he  not  send  a  bullet  into  the  broad 
chest.  He  was  standing  in  the  right  place  to  do  it, 
and  the  others  had  not  the  chance  of  a  shot  at  the 


ISO  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

right  moment.  Did  he  think  he  was  on  parade  be- 
fore the  forest  king? 

Of  course  Gosta  stood  dreaming  of  beautiful  Ma- 
rienne,  who  was  lying  ill  at  Ekeby,  having  taken 
cold  on  the  night  when  she  lay  in  the  snowdrift. 
He  thought  of  her,  who  also  was  a  sacrifice  to  the 
curse  of  hate  that  lies  over  the  world,  and  he  shud- 
dered at  himself  at  having  gone  forth  to  persecute 
and  kill. 

And  there  came  the  great  bear  straight  to  him, 
blind  in  one  eye  from  the  blow  of  a  cavalier's  knife, 
lame  from  a  cavalier's  bullet,  angry  and  unkempt 
and  lonely  since  they  had  killed  his  wife  and  car- 
ried off  his  children.  And  Gosta  saw  him  as  he 
was,  a  poor  persecuted  beast,  whose  life  he  did  not 
care  to  take,  for  it  was  the  only  thing  the  poor  crea- 
ture possessed,  when  men  had  taken  all  else  from 
him. 

"  He  may  kill  me/'  thought  Gosta,  "but  I  won't 
shoot." 

And  while  the  bear  rushed  toward  him,  he  stood 
as  quietly  as  if  on  parade,  and  when  the  forest  king 
came  right  in  front  of  him,  he  shouldered  his  gun 
and  took  a  step  aside. 

Then  the  bear  pursued  his  way,  knowing  full  well 
there  was  no  time  to  lose.  He  plunged  into  the  for- 
est, forced  a  way  through  drifts  as  high  as  a  man, 
rolled  down  the  steep  slopes,  and  fled  irreclaimably, 
while  all  the  cavaliers  who  had  stood  with  their  guns 


GREAT  BEAR  OF  GURLITA  CLIFF    151 

at  full  cock,  waiting  for  Gosta's  shot,  now  discharged 
them  after  him. 

But  in  vain.  The  ring  was  broken  and  the  bear 
was  gone.  Fuchs  scolded,  Beerencreutz  swore,  but 
Gosta  only  laughed.  How  could  they  expect  a  man 
as  happy  as  he  was  to  kill  any  of  God's  children? 

The  great  bear  of  Gurlita  Cliff  escaped  with  his 
life  from  the  fray,  but  he  had  been  thoroughly 
awakened  from  his  winter  sleep,  as  the  peasants  soon 
had  cause  to  know.  There  was  no  bear  who  could 
tear  open  the  low,  cellar-like  roofs  of  their  sheep- 
folds  so  easily;  none  could  so  cunningly  avoid  a 
carefully  arranged  ambush. 

The  people  on  the  Upper  Lofven  were  soon  in 
despair  what. to  do  about  it.  They  sent  again  and 
again  to  the  cavaliers,  begging  them  to  come  and 
shoot  him. 

And  day  after  day  and  night  after  night,  during 
all  the  month  of  February,  the  cavaliers  made  their 
way  to  the  Upper  Lofven  in  search  of  the  bear,  but 
he  always  escaped  them.  Had  he  learned  cunning 
from  the  fox  and  sharpness  from  the  wolves?  While 
they  were  guarding  one  farmyard,  he  was  laying 
the  neighboring  yard  waste ;  while  they  searched  for 
him  in  the  forest,  he  was  giving  chase  to  a  peasant 
driving  over  the  ice.  He  had  become  the  most  auda- 
cious of  marauders;  he  crept  into  the  garret  and 
emptied  the  goodwife's  honey-pot,  and  killed  the 
horse  standing  harnessed  to  her  husband's  sledge. 


152  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

But  by  and  by  people  began  to  understand  what 
kind  of  a  bear  he  was,  and  the  reason  why  Gosta  Ber- 
ling  had  not  shot  at  him.  Dreadful  as  it  was  to  think 
of,  this  was  no  ordinary  bear !  No  one  need  think  of 
killing  him  unless  he  carried  a  silver  bullet  in  his 
gun.  A  bullet  of  mingled  silver  and  bell  metal,  cast 
on  a  Thursday  night  at  new  moon  in  a  church  tower, 
without  the  priest  or  sexton  or  any  living  mortal 
knowing  about  it,  would  certainly  bring  him  down, 
but  such  a  bullet  was  not  easy  to  procure. 


There  was  one  man  at  Ekeby,more  than  the  others, 
who  was  mortified  at  this  state  of  things.  It  was, 
of  course,  Anders  Fuchs,  the  bear  hunter.  He  lost 
both  appetite  and  sleep  in  his  anger  at  not  being 
able  to  kill  the  big  bear  of  Gurlita  Cliff,  till  at  last  he 
also  began  to  understand  that  the  bear  could  only 
be  felled  by  a  silver  bullet. 

Major  Anders  Fuchs  was  not  a  handsome  man. 
He  had  a  clumsy,  heavy  body  and  a  broad,  red  face 
with  hanging  pouches  under  his  cheeks  and  a  many- 
doubled  chin.  His  small  black  moustache  stood  as 
stiff  as  a  brush  above  his  full  lips,  and  his  black  hair 
was  close  and  thick,  and  rose  straight  up  on  his 
head.  Besides  this,  he  was  a  man  of  few  words  and 
a  great  eater.  He  was  not  a  man  whom  women  met 
with  sunny  smiles  or  open  arms,  and  he  did  not 
waste  any  tender  glances  on  them  either. 


GREAT  BEAR  OF  GURLITA  CLIFF    153 

No  one  thought  he  would  ever  see  a  woman 
to  whom  he  would  give  preference,  and  anything 
in  connection  with  love  or  sentiment  was  utterly 
foreign  to  his  nature. 

So  when  he  went  about  longing  for  moonlight, 
you  must  not  imagine  he  wished  to  make  the  good 
lady,  Luna,  a  confidant  in  any  tender  love  trouble; 
he  was  only  thinking  of  the  silver  bullet  which  must 
be  moulded  by  the  light  of  the  new  moon. 

On  aThursday  evening,  when  the  moon  was  only 
two  fingers'  width  and  hung  over  the  horizon  for 
a  couple  of  hours  after  sunset,  Major  Fuchs  betook 
himself  from  Ekeby  without  telling  any  one  where 
he  was  going.  He  had  a  fire-steel  and  a  bullet  form 
in  his  game-bag  and  his  gun  on  his  back,  and  he 
went  toward  Bro  Church  to  see  what  Fortune  had 
in  store  for  an  honest  man. 

The  church  lay  on  the  eastern  shore  of  the  nar- 
row strait  between  the  Upper  and  the  Lower  Lof- 
ven,  and  Major  Fuchs  was  obliged  to  cross  Sund 
Bridge  to  reach  it.  He  marched  down  thither  in 
deep  thought  without  looking  up  at  the  Bro  Hills, 
where  the  houses  were  sharply  outlined  against  the 
clear  evening  sky,  or  toward  Gurlita  Cliff  raising  its 
round  head  in  the  evening  glow.  He  stared  only  at 
the  ground,  and  wondered  how  he  was  to  get  hold 
of  the  church  key  without  any  one  discovering  the 
theft. 

When  he  reached  the  bridge,  he  heard  some  one 


i54  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

screaming  so  wildly  that  he  was  obliged  to  raise  his 
head. 

A  little  German,  Faber  by  name,  was  organist 
at  Bro  at  that  time.  He  was  a  slender  man,  wanting 
in  both  dignity  and  weight ;  and  the  sexton  was  Jans 
Larsson,  a  doughty  peasant,  but  poor,  for  the  Bro  by 
parson  had  cheated  him  out  of  his  patrimony,  five 
hundred  dalers.  The  sexton  wanted  to  marry  the 
organist's  sister,  the  little,  refined  Froken  Faber, 
but  the  organist  would  not  hear  of  it,  and  thus  the 
two  were  enemies.  That  evening  the  sexton  had  met 
the  organist  on  the  bridge  and  straightway  fallen 
upon  him.  He  caught  him  by  the  chest,  lifted  him 
over  the  parapet  of  the  bridge,  and  told  him  he 
would  drop  him  into  the  strait  if  he  would  not 
promise  him  the  hand  of  the  little  lady.  Still  the 
German  would  not  consent ;  he  kicked  and  screamed 
and  still  persisted  in  his  "No,"  though  he  saw  be- 
neath him  the  stream  of  black,  open  water  rushing 
between  its  white  banks. 

"No,  no!'   he  screamed,  "no,  no!' 

And  it  is  very  possible  that  the  sexton,  in  his 
fury,  would  have  allowed  his  captive  to  drop  down 
into  the  cold,  black  water,  if  Major  Fuchs  had  not 
come  upon  the  bridge  just  then.  He  was  startled, 
placed  Faber  on  his  feet  again,  and  disappeared  as 
rapidly  as  possible. 

Little  Faber  fell  upon  the  Major's  neck  and 
thanked  him  for  saving  his  life,  but  Major  Fuchs 


GREAT  BEAR  OF  GURLITA  CLIFF    155 

thrust  him  aside  and  said  it  was  nothing  to  be  thank- 
ful for.  The  Major  had  no  love  for  the  Germans 
since  he  lay  quartered  in  Putbus  on  the  Riigen  dur- 
ing the  Pomeranian  war.  He  had  never  been  so 
near  starving  to  death  as  during  that  time. 

Then  little  Faber  was  for  running  to  Justice  Schar- 
ling  and  charging  the  sexton  with  attempting  to 
murder  him,  but  the  Major  soon  convinced  him 
that  it  was  not  worth  while  to  do  so;  for  in  that 
country  it  cost  nothing  at  all  to  kill  a  German,  not 
a  penny,  and  to  prove  the  truth  of  his  words,  he 
offered  to  throw  him  into  the  strait  himself. 

Then  Faber  calmed  himself,  and  invited  the 
Major  to  go  home  with  him  and  eat  some  sausages 
and  drink  warm  German  beer. 

The  Major  accepted,  for  he  thought  the  organist 
was  sure  to  have  a  church  key,  and  they  went  up 
the  hill  on  which  Bro  Church  stood,  with  its  rectory 
and  the  sexton's  and  organist's  dwellings  around  it. 

"Please  excuse  things,"  said  little  Faber,  when 
he  and  the  Major  entered  the  room.  "We  are  not 
in  very  good  order  to-day,  we  have  been  so  busy,* 
my  sister  and  I.  We  have  killed  a  cock." 

"You  don't  say  so!"  exclaimed  the  Major. 

Directly  afterwards  little  Froken  Faber  cameinuo 
the  room  carrying  great  earthenware  jugs  full  of 
beer.  Now  every  one  knows  that  the  Major  did  not 
look  upon  women  with  the  kindest  of  glances,  but 
he  was  obliged  to  look  graciously  on  the  little  lady 


156  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

who  was  so  neat  in  her  pretty  cap  and  laces.  The 
fair  hair  was  brushed  so  smoothly  on  her  forehead, 
and  the  homespun  dress  was  so  neat  and  so  beauti- 
fully clean,  her  little  hands  were  so  busy  and  eager, 
and  her  little  face  so  rosy  and  round,  that  he  found 
himself  thinking  that  if  he  had  seen  that  bit  of 
womankind  twenty-five  years  ago,  he  would  cer- 
tainly have  felt  forced  to  pay  court  to  her. 

But  though  she  was  so  rosy  and  helpful  and  so 
neat,  her  eyes  were  quite  red  with  crying.  It  was  just 
that  which  gave  him  such  tender  thoughts  regard- 
ing her. 

While  the  men  ate  and  drank,  she  passed  in  and 
out  of  the  room.  Once  she  came  to  her  brother, 
curtsied,  and  asked, "  Will  my  brother  say  how  the 
cows  are  to  be  placed  in  the  shed?' 

"  Place  twelve  on  the  left  and  eleven  on  the  right ; 
they  will  not  be  crowded  then/'  replied  little  Faber. 

"It  is  extraordinary  how  many  cows  you  have, 
Faber!"  exclaimed  the  Major. 

But  the  truth  of  the  matter  was  that  the  organist 
had  only  two  cows,  but  he  called  one  Twelve  and  the 
other  Eleven,  so  that  it  should  sound  grand  when 
he  talked  of  them. 

The  Major  learned  that  the  cowhouse  was  being 
rebuilt,  so  that  the  cows  were  out  of  doors  during 
the  day,  and  were  placed  at  night  in  the  woodshed. 

And  going  in  and  out  of  the  room,  the  little 
Froken  came  to  her  brother  again,  curtsied,  and 


GREAT  BEAR  OF  GURL1TA  CLIFF    157 

said,  "The  carpenter  was  asking  how  high  the  cow- 
house was  to  be  built/' 

"  Measure  by  the  cows,"  replied  the  organist. 
"Measure  by  the  cows." 

Major  Fuchs  thought  that  a  very  good  answer. 

And  without  further  ado  the  Major  found  him- 
self asking  the  organist  why  his  sister's  eyes  were 
so  red,  and  he  learned  that  she  was  crying  because 
her  brother  would  not  allow  her  to  marry  the  sex- 
ton, who  was  a  poor  man  and  encumbered  with  debt. 

That  made  the  Major  sink  still  deeper  in  thought. 
He  emptied  one  jugful  after  another  and  ate  one 
sausage  after  another  without  noticing  what  he  was 
doing.  Little  Faber  shuddered  at  such  an  appetite 
and  such  thirst,  but  the  more  the  Major  drank  and 
ate,  the  clearer  grew  his  mind,  and  the  more  deter- 
mined he  became  to  do  something  for  the  little 
Froken. 

He  was  Major  Fuchs,  the  bear  hunter,  the  man 
who  ate  up  in  one  evening  a  piece  of  brawn  which 
the  Judge's  wife  at  Munkerud  had  intended  to 
last  all  through  the  Christmas  holidays,  and  he  was 
pleased  and  in  gentle  mood  at  the  thought  of  what 
splendid  sausage  he  was  eating.  Yes,  he  would  cer- 
tainly see  to  it  that  Froken  Faber's  eyes  need  weep 
no  more. 

Meanwhile  he  kept  his  eye  on  the  big  key  with 
the  curved  handle  hanging  near  the  door,  and  no 
sooner  had  little  Faber,  who  had  been  obliged  to 


158  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

keep  the  Major  company  at  the  beer-jugs,  laid  his 
head  on  the  table  and  was  snoring,  than  the  Major 
clutched  the  key,  put  on  his  cap,  and  hurried  away. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  was  feeling  his  way  up 
the  steeple  stairs,  lighted  by  his  tiny  horn  lantern, 
and  reached  at  last  the  bell  tower,  where  the  bells 
opened  their  wide  throats  above  him.  Once  there, 
he  scraped  some  bell  metal  off  one  of  them  with 
a  file,  and  he  was  just  on  the  point  of  taking  the 
bullet  form  and  a  small  pan  out  of  his  game-bag 
when  he  discovered  that  he  was  without  the  most 
important  thing  of  all — he  had  brought  no  silver 
with  him.  If  there  was  to  be  any  power  in  that  bul- 
let, it  must  be  cast  in  that  belfry.  Now  all  was  com- 
plete :  it  was  Thursday  night  and  there  was  a  new 
moon,  and  no  one  knew  of  his  being  there,  and  yet 
he  could  not  cast  his  bullet.  There  in  the  silence  of 
the  night  he  sent  up  such  a  mighty  oath,  it  fairly 
rang  in  the  bells  above  him. 

Just  then  he  heard  a  slight  noise  in  the  church 
below,  and  thought  he  heard  steps  on  the  stairs. 
Yes,  so  it  was,  heavy  steps  were  ascending  the  stairs. 

Major  Fuchs,  standing  there  swearing  so  that 
the  bells  trembled,  became  a  trifle  thoughtful  at 
this  turn  of  affairs.  He  wondered  who  it  could  be 
coming  to  help  him  cast  his  bullet.  The  footsteps 
approached  nearer  and  nearer.  He  who  climbed  the 
stairs  was  certainly  bound  for  the  belfry. 

The  Major  crept  in  among  the  beams  and  raft- 


GREAT  BEAR  OF  GURLITA  CLIFF    159 

ers,  and  put  out  his  lantern.  He  was  not  frightened 
exactly,  but  everything  depended  on  his  doing  his 
work  unseen.  And  no  sooner  was  he  concealed,  than 
the  new-comer's  head  rose  to  the  level  of  the  floor. 

The  Major  recognized  him  —  it  was  the  miserly 
Broby  parson.  He,  nearly  crazy  with  covetousness, 
was  in  the  habit  of  hiding  his  treasure  in  the  most 
extraordinary  places.  Now  he  came  to  the  belfry 
with  a  packet  of  notes  which  he  wished  to  conceal 
there.  He  did  not  know  that  any  one  saw  him ;  he 
lifted  a  board  in  the  floor,  placed  the  money  under 
it,  and  departed  again. 

The  Major  was  not  backward,  he  lifted  the  same 
board.  What  heaps  of  money  —  rolls  and  rolls  of 
notes,  and  among  them,  leather  pouches  full  of 
silver!  The  Major  took  just  as  much  silver  as  he 
needed  for  his  bullet,  and  did  not  disturb  the  rest. 

When  he  descended  from  the  belfry,  the  silver 
bullet  was  in  his  gun.  He  marched  away  wondering 
what  more  fortune  had  in  store  for  him  that  night. 
There  is  something  extraordinary  about  Thursday 
nights,  as  everybody  knows.  He  took  a  turn  in 
the  direction  of  the  organist's  house.  Think,  if  that 
wretch  of  a  bear  knew  that  Faber's  cows  stood  in  a 
miserable  shed,  hardly  better  than  being  under  the 
open  sky! 

Well,  was  that  not  something  big  and  black  he 
saw  making  its  way  over  the  field  toward  the  cow- 
shed? It  must  be  the  bear. 


160  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

He  laid  his  gun  to  his  cheek  and  was  quite  pre- 
pared to  fire,  when  he  suddenly  changed  his  mind. 

Froken  Faber's  red  eyes  appeared  before  him 
in  the  darkness.  He  thought  he  would  like  to  help 
her  and  the  sexton,  but,  of  course,  it  was  a  great 
sacrifice  for  him  to  give  up  the  chance  of  killing  the 
great  bear  of  Gurlita  Cliff.  He  said  afterwards  that 
nothing  in  his  life  had  been  so  hard  to  do  as  that, 
but  as  the  little  Froken  was  so  particularly  nice  and 
sweet,  he  did  it. 

He  went  to  the  sexton's  house,woke  him,  dragged 
him  out  half-naked,  and  told  him  that  he  must 
shoot  the  bear  which  was  creeping  round  Faber's 
woodshed. 

"If  you  shoot  that  bear,  he  will  certainly  give 
you  his  sister,"  he  said,  "for  you  will  at  once  be- 
come an  honored  man.  That  is  no  ordinary  bear, 
and  the  best  man  in  the  country  would  think  it  an 
honor  to  kill  him." 

And  he  placed  his  own  gun  in  his  hand,  loaded 
with  the  bullet  made  of  silver  and  bell  metal,  cast  in 
a  belfry  on  a  Thursday  night  at  new  moon,  and  he 
could  not  help  trembling  with  envy  that  another 
than  he  was  to  shoot  the  great  forest  king,  the  old 
bear  of  Gurlita  Cliff. 

The  sexton  aimed  —  aimed,  God  help  us,  as  if 
he  meant  to  shoot  the  Great  Bear  or  Charles'  Wain, 
which,  high  in  heaven,  circles  round  the  Polar  Star, 
and  not  a  bear  walking  on  the  earth — and  the  gun 


GREAT  BEAR  OF  GURLITA  CLIFF    161 

went  off  with  a  report  which  was  heard  even  on 
Gurlita  Cliff. 

But  whatever  he  aimed  at,  the  bear  fell.  That  is 
always  the  case  when  you  shoot  with  a  silver  bullet. 
You  hit  the  bear  in  the  heart  even  if  you  aim  at 
Charles'  Wain. 

The  people  rushed  out  at  once  from  all  the  cot- 
tages near,  wondering  what  had  happened,  for  never 
did  a  shot  sound  louder  or  awake  so  many  sleep- 
ing echoes  as  that  did,  and  the  sexton  was  greatly 
praised,  for  the  bear  was  a  real  trouble  to  all  the 
country-side. 

Little  Faber  also  came  out,  but  Major  Fuchs 
was  cruelly  deceived.  There  stood  the  sexton,  highly 
honored  by  his  neighbors,  and  he  had  saved  Fa- 
ber's  own  cows,  yet  the  little  organist  was  neither 
touched  nor  thankful.  He  did  not  open  his  arms 
to  the  sexton  as  to  a  brother-in-law  and  a  hero. 

The  Major  wrinkled  his  brows  and  stamped  his 
foot  in  anger  at  such  narrow-mindedness.  He 
wanted  to  explain  to  the  avaricious,  mean  little  man 
what  a  feat  had  been  done,  but  he  began  to  stam- 
mer so,  he  could  not  get  a  word  out.  And  he  grew 
more  and  more  angry  at  the  thought  of  having  use- 
lessly sacrificed  the  great  honor  of  killing  the  bear. 

Oh!  it  was  simply  impossible  for  him  to  conceive 
how  the  man  who  had  accomplished  such  a  feat 
was  not  accounted  worthy  of  winning  the  proudest 
bride. 


162  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

The  sexton  and  some  young  men  were  going 
to  flay  the  bear.  They  went  to  the  grindstones  to 
sharpen  their  knives,  and  the  other  people  went 
home  and  to  bed,  and  Major  Fuchs  was  left  alone 
with  the  dead  bear. 

Then  he  went  off  to  the  church  again,  turned 
the  key  once  more  in  the  keyhole,  climbed  once 
more  the  narrow,  crooked  stairs,  woke  the  sleep- 
ing pigeons,  and  entered  the  belfry. 

Afterwards,  when  the  bear  was  flayed  under  the 
Major's  supervision,  they  found  a  parcel  of  notes 
worth  five  hundred  dalers  in  his  jaws.  It  was  im- 
possible to  account  for  their  presence  there,  but 
after  all,  it  was  no  ordinary  bear,  and  as  the  sexton 
had  killed  it,  the  money  was  clearly  his. 

When  this  became  known,  little  Faber,  too,  be- 
gan to  understand  what  a  glorious  deed  the  sexton 
had  done,  and  he  declared  he  would  be  proud  to 
own  him  as  a  brother-in-law. 

On  Friday  evening  Major  Fuchs  returned  to 
Ekeby,  after  having  graced  an  assembly  at  the  sex- 
ton's held  in  honor  of  the  dead  bear,  and  another 
at  the  organist's  in  honor  of  the  new  engagement. 
He  walked  along  with  a  heavy  heart;  he  felt  no 
delight  over  his  vanquished  enemy,  and  took  no 
pleasure  in  the  splendid  bear- skin  which  the  sex- 
ton had  presented  to  him. 

Perhaps  some  might  imagine  that  he  mourned 
because  little  Froken  Faber  belonged  to  another? 


GREAT  BEAR  OF  GURLITA  CLIFF    163 

Oh,  no !  that  caused  him  no  grief.  But  what  went  to 
his  heart  was  that  the  old  one-eyed  forest  king  was 
now  dead,  and  he  had  not  been  the  man  to  kill  him 
with  a  silver  bullet. 

He  went  up  to  the  cavaliers'  wing,  where  the 
cavaliers  sat  round  the  fire,  and  without  a  word  he 
threw  the  bear-skin  down  before  them.  You  must 
not  think  he  related  his  adventures  there  and  then ; 
it  was  long,  long  years  before  he  could  be  persuaded 
to  tell  the  true  facts  of  the  case.  Neither  did  he 
make  known  the  Broby  parson's  hiding-place,  and 
the  parson  probably  never  missed  the  money. 

The  cavaliers  examined  the  skin. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  skin,"  said  Beerencreutz;  "I 
wonder  why  he  rose  from  his  winter  sleep,  or  per- 
haps you  shot  him  in  his  lair?' 

"He  was  shot  in  Bro." 

"Well,  he  was  not  as  big  as  the  Gurlita  bear,  but 
he  must  have  been  a  splendid  beast,"  said  Gosta. 

"If  he  had  been  one-eyed,"  said  Kevenhuller, 
"I  should  believe  you  had  shot  the  old  man  him- 
self, he  is  so  big;  but  there  is  no  wound  or  scar 
near  his  eyes,  so  it  can't  be  he." 

Fuchs  swore  first  over  his  stupidity,  but  after- 
wards his  face  lighted  up  till  he  looked  quite  hand- 
some. So  the  great  bear  had  not  fallen  to  another 
man's  shot! 

"Lord  God,  how  good  Thou  art!"  he  said,  and 
clasped  his  hands. 


The  ^Auction  at  TSjorne 

WE  young  people  must  often  wonder  at  the 
stories  told  us  by  our  elders. "  Did  you  dance 
every  night  as  long  as  your  beautiful  youth  lasted? ' 
"Was  life  for  you  one  long  adventure?"  we  asked 
them.  "Were  all  girls  lovely  and  amiable  in  those 
days,  and  did  Gosta  Berling  elope  with  one  of  them 
after  every  ball?' 

Then  the  old  people  shook  their  heads  and  told 
of  the  whirlingof  the  spinning-wheels  and  the  boom 
of  the  looms,  of  cooking,  of  the  thunder  and  crash 
in  the  track  of  the  axe  through  the  forests;  but  be- 
fore long  they  harked  back  again  to  the  old  sto- 
ries. Sledges  drove  up  to  the  hall  door  and  raced 
through  the  dark  woods  with  their  load  of  gay  young 
people,  the  dancing  grew  wild,  and  the  violin  strings 
snapped.  The  wild  wave  of  adventure  rushed  tu- 
multuously  along  the  shores  of  Lake  Lofyen, 
and  its  noise  was  heard  afar.  The  forests  swerved 
and  fell,  all  the  powers  of  destruction  were  loose, 
flames  flared,  the  rapids  swept  away  their  prey,  and 
wild  beasts  prowled  hungrily  round  the  homesteads. 
Under  the  hoofs  of  the  eight-footed  horses  all  quiet 
happiness  was  trampled  in  the  dust.  And  wherever 
the  wild  hunt  passed,  men's  hearts  flamed  up  tem- 
pestuously, and  the  women  fled  from  their  homes 
in  pale  dismay.  And  we  sat  wondering,  silent,  fright- 


THE  AUCTION  AT  BJORNE  165 

ened,  and  yet  blissfully  happy.  "What  people  they 
were/'  we  thought  to  ourselves ;  "  we  shall  never  see 
their  like!" 

"  Did  people  in  those  days  never  think  of  what 
they  were  doing?"  we  asked. 

"Certainly,  they  did,"  our  elders  answered. 

"But  not  as  we  think,"  we  persisted.  Then  our 
elders  did  not  understand  what  we  meant. 

For  we  were  thinking  of  the  wonderful  spirit  of 
self-analysis  which  had  already  taken  possession  of 
our  minds ;  we  were  thinking  of  him  with  the  icy  eyes 
and  the  long,  knotted  fingers  —  he,  who  sits  in  the 
darkest  corner  of  our  souls,  and  plucks  our  being 
to  pieces  as  old  women  pluck  scraps  of  wool  and 
silk.  Piece  by  piece,  the  long,  hard  fingers  have  dis- 
sected us  till  our  whole  being  lies  there  like  a  heap 
of  rags — till  all  our  best  feelings,  our  innermost 
thoughts,  all  we  have  said  and  done  is  examined, 
ransacked,  disintegrated,  and  the  icy  eyes  have 
watched,  and  the  toothless  mouth  has  sneered  and 
whispered,  "See,  it  is  but  rags,  nothing  but  rags." 

One  of  the  people  of  those  old  days  had  opened 
her  soul  to  that  spirit.  He  sat  there  watching  at  the 
font  of  all  impulse,  sneering  both  at  the  good  and 
the  evil,  understanding  all,  judging  nothing,  exam- 
ining, searching,  and  plucking  to  pieces  and  para- 
lyzing all  emotions  of  the  heart  and  all  strength  of 
thought  by  smiling  scornfully  at  everything. 

Marienne  Sinclaire  bore  the  spirit  of  self-analy- 


1 66  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

sis  within  her.  She  felt  his  eyes  follow  every  step, 
every  word  of  hers.  Her  life  had  become  a  play,  at 
which  she  was  the  only  spectator.  She  was  no  longer 
a  human  being — she  was  neither  wearied,  nor  did 
she  rejoice,  nor  could  she  love.  She  played  the  part 
of  the  beautiful  Marienne  Sinclaire,  and  the  spirit 
of  self-analysis  sat  with  staring  eyes  and  busy  fin- 
gers and  watched  her  acting.  She  felt  herself  divided 
into  two,  and  half  of  her  being — pale,  unfeeling, 
and  scornful — watched  the  other  half's  transactions; 
and  the  spirit  which  thus  plucked  her  asunder  had 
never  a  word  of  kindness  or  sympathy  for  her. 

But  where  had  he  been,  the  pale  watcher  beside 
the  springs  of  impulse, on  the  night  she  had  learned 
to  feel  life's  fulness?  Where  was  he,  when  she,  the 
wise  Marienne,  kissed  Gosta  Berling  before  the  eyes 
of  two  hundred  people,  and  when  she  threw  her- 
self into  the  snowdrift  to  die  in  despair?  The  icy 
eyes  were  blinded,  and  the  sneer  was  paralyzed,  for 
passion  had  swept  through  her  soul.  The  wild  wave 
of  adventure  had  thundered  in  her  ears.  She  had 
been  a  whole  being  during  that  one  awful  night. 

Oh,  god  of  self-scorn,  when  Marienne  lifted  at 
last  her  frozen  arms  to  Gosta's  neck,  then,  like  old 
Beerencreutz,  thou  wert  compelled  to  turn  thy  eyes 
from  earth  and  look  at  the  stars !  That  night  thou 
hadst  no  power.  Thou  wast  dead  while  she  sang 
her  love  hymns,  dead  when  she  hurried  to  Sjo  for 
the  Major,  dead  when  she  saw  the  flames  redden- 


THE  AUCTION  AT  BJORNE  167 

ing  the  sky  over  the  treetops.  See,  they  have  come, 
the  strong  storm  birds,  the  demon  birds  of  passion. 
With  wings  of  fire  and  claws  of  steel,  they  have 
swooped  down  upon  thee,  and  flung  thee  out  into 
the  unknown.  Thou  hast  been  dead  and  destroyed. 
But  they,  the  proud  and  mighty,  they  whose  path 
is  unknown  and  who  cannot  be  followed  —  they 
have  swept  onward,  and  out  of  the  depths  of  the 
unknown  the  spirit  of  self-observation  has  arisen 
again,  and  again  taken  possession  of  Marienne's 
soul. 

She  lay  ill  at  Ekeby  all  through  February.  She 
had  taken  smallpox  at  Sjo,  when  she  went  to  find 
the  Major,  and  the  awful  sickness  had  her  com- 
pletely at  its  mercy,  for  she  had  been  frightfully 
chilled  and  wearied  during  that  night.  Death  had 
been  very  near  her,  but  toward  the  end  of  the 
month  she  grew  better.  She  was  still  weak,  and  was 
greatly  disfigured.  She  would  never  again  be  called 
beautiful  Marienne.  This  misfortune,  which  was 
to  bring  sorrow  over  all  Varmland  as  if  one  of  its 
best  treasures  had  been  lost,  was  known,  as  yet, 
only  to  Marienne  and  her  sick  nurse.  Even  the 
cavaliers  were  not  aware  of  it.  The  room  in  which 
the  smallpox  reigned  was  closed  to  all.  But  where 
is  the  spirit  of  self-analysis  stronger  than  in  the 
long  hours  of  convalescence  ?  There  it  sits  and  stares 
and  stares  with  its  icy  eyes,  and  plucks  and  plucks 
to  pieces  our  being  with  its  knotted  fingers.  And  if 


1 68  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

you  look  closely,  you  see  behind  him  another  pale 
being  who  stares  and  sneers  and  paralyzes,  and  be- 
hind him  still  another  and  another,  all  sneering  at 
one  another  and  the  whole  world.  While  Mari- 
enne  lay  there  and  stared  at  herself  with  those  icy 
eyes,  all  feeling  died  within  her.  She  lay  there  and 
played  the  part  of  being  ill  and  being  unhappy; 
she  played  at  being  in  love  and  being  revengeful. 
She  was  all  this,  and  yet  it  was  but  acting  a  part. 
Everything  became  unreal  under  the  gaze  of  those 
eyes  watching  her,  which,  again,  were  watched  by 
another  pair,  and  another,  and  another  in  an  end- 
less perspective.  All  life's  powers  were  asleep;  she 
had  had  strength  for  burning  hate  and  overwhelm- 
ing love  for  one  night  only.  She  did  not  even  know 
if  she  loved  Gosta  Berling.  She  longed  to  see  him 
to  prove  if  he  could  carry  her  out  of  herself. 

While  the  illness  raged  she  had  only  one  clear 
thought.  She  took  care  that  the  nature  of  the  fever 
should  remain  unknown.  She  would  not  see  her 
parents:  she  had  no  wish  for  reconciliation  with  her 
father.  She  knew  he  would  repent  if  he  heard  how 
ill  she  was.  So  she  commanded  that  her  parents, 
and  others  too,  in  fact,  were  to  be  told  that  her 
eyes,  which  were  always  weak  when  she  visited  her 
native  place,  compelled  her,  for  a  time,  to  remain 
in  a  darkened  room.  She  forbade  her  nurse  to  say 
how  ill  she  was  and  forbade  the  cavaliers  sending 
for  a  doctor  from  Karlstad.  She  certainly  had  the 


THE  AUCTION  AT  BJORNE  169 

smallpox,  but  it  was  a  mild  case — the  medicine- 
chest  at  Ekeby  contained  all  that  was  necessary  to 
save  her  life.  She  never  thought  of  dying:  she  only 
waited  to  be  well  enough  to  go  with  Gosta  to  the 
pastor  and  arrange  for  the  banns  to  be  published. 
But  now  the  fever  had  left  her.  She  was  cool  and 
prudent  again.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  alone  was 
wise  in  this  world  of  fools.  She  neither  loved  nor 
hated ;  she  understood  her  father,  she  understood 
them  all.  He  that  understands  does  not  hate.  She 
had  been  told  that  Melchior  Sinclaire  was  going 
to  have  an  auction  at  Bjorne  and  make  away  with 
all  his  possessions  so  that  she  would  have  nothing 
to  inherit  from  him.  They  said  he  intended  mak- 
ing the  wreck  as  complete  as  possible.  He  would 
sell  the  furniture  and  household  goods  first,  then 
the  horses  and  cattle  and  farm  implements,  and 
lastly,  the  estate  itself;  and  he  intended  putting  the 
money  in  a  bag  and  sinking  it  in  the  Lofven.  Her 
inheritance  would  be  ruin,  dissipation,  and  dismay. 
Marienne  smiled  approvingly  when  she  heard  this. 
Such  was  his  character;  he  was  sure  to  act  like  that. 
It  seemed  extraordinary  to  her  that  she  should 
have  poured  forth  that  poem  of  love.  She,  too,  had 
dreamed  of  the  miner's  hut — she,  as  well  as  oth- 
ers. It  was  wonderful  to  her  that  she  had  ever  had 
a  dream.  She  sighed  for  nature  —  she  was  weary  of 
constantly  acting  a  part.  She  had  never  had  a  strong 
feeling.  She  hardly  mourned  her  lost  beauty,  but  she 


1 70  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

shuddered  at  the  thought  of  pity  from  strangers. 
Oh,  a  second  of  self-forgetfulness,  a  gesture,  a  word, 
an  act  which  was  not  premeditated! 

One  day,  when  the  room  had  been  disinfected,  and 
she  lay  dressed  upon  the  sofa,  she  sent  for  Gosta 
Berling.  They  told  her  that  he  had  gone  to  the  auc- 
tion at  Bjorne. 


At  Bjorne  there  was,  in  truth,  a  great  auction  going 
on.  It  was  an  old  and  wealthy  estate,  and  people 
had  come  from  great  distances  to  take  part  in  the 
sale. 

Melchior  Sinclaire  had  gathered  all  the  house- 
hold belongings  into  the  great  salon.  There  were 
thousands  of  things  there,  thrown  in  heaps  which 
reached  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling. 

He  had  gone  about  the  house  like  a  destroying 
angel  on  Judgment  Day,  and  gathered  together  all 
he  intended  to  sell.  The  kitchen  utensils,  the  black 
cauldrons,  wooden  chairs,  tin  pots,  and  copper  pans 
were  left  in  peace,  for  they  did  not  remind  him  of 
Marienne,  but  there  was  little  else  that  escaped  his 
wrath. 

He  broke  into  Marienne's  room,  carrying  away 
everything.  Her  doll  cupboard  stood  there  and  her 
bookcase,  the  little  chair  he  had  ordered  to  be  carved 
for  her,  her  clothes  and  ornaments,  her  sofa  and 
bed — they  must  all  go. 


THE  AUCTION  AT  BJORNE  171 

And  he  went  from  room  to  room.  He  snatched 
up  anything  he  took  a  fancy  to,  and  carried  great 
burdens  down  to  the  auction  room.  He  panted 
under  the  weight  of  sofas  and  marble  tables,  but  he 
persisted  in  his  work.  And  he  threw  it  all  down  in 
the  greatest  confusion.  He  had  torn  the  cupboards 
open  and  brought  out  the  family  silver.  Away  with 
it!  Marienne  had  used  it.  He  gathered  up  armfuls 
of  snow-white  damask  and  smooth  linen  towels  with 
wide  open-work  hems — honest,  homemade  stuff, 
the  fruit  of  years  of  toil  —  and  tumbled  it  all  in 
a  heap.  Away  with  it!  Marienne  was  not  worthy 
to  inherit  it.  He  stormed  through  the  rooms  with 
piles  of  porcelain,  caring  little  if  he  broke  dozens  of 
plates,  and  he  carried  off  the  teacups  on  which  the 
family  crest  was  painted.  Away  with  them !  Let  who 
will  use  them.  He  brought  downstairs  mountains  of 
bed-clothes  from  the  garrets — pillows  and  bolsters 
so  soft,  you  could  sink  in  them  as  in  a  wave.  Away 
with  them!  Marienne  had  slept  in  them. 

He  cast  furious  glances  at  the  well-known  fur- 
niture. There  wasn't  a  chair  or  a  sofa  that  she  had 
not  used,  nor  a  picture  that  she  had  n't  looked  at, 
nor  a  chandelier  that  had  n't  lighted  her,  nor  a  mir- 
ror that  hadn't  reflected  her  beauty.  Gloomily  he 
shook  his  fist  at  that  world  of  memories.  He  could 
have  rushed  at  them  with  lifted  club  and  broken 
them  in  pieces. 

Yet  it  seemed  to  him  an  even  greater  revenge  to 


1 72  COST  A  BERLING'S  SAGA 

make  an  auction  of  it  all.  Away  to  strangers  with 
it!  Away  to  be  soiled  in  the  cotters'  huts,  to  be 
destroyed  in  the  charge  of  the  stranger !  Did  n't  he 
know  them  well?  Those  old  pieces  of  furniture, 
fallen  from  high  estate,  to  be  seen  in  the  peasants' 
huts,  fallen  as  his  daughter  had  fallen!  Away  with 
them  all  to  the  four  corners  of  heaven,  so  that  no 
eye  could  find  them,  no  hand  could  gather  them 
together  again! 

When  the  auction  opened,  he  had  filled  half  the 
salon  with  an  incredible  jumble  of  household  goods. 

Across  the  room  he  had  placed  a  long  counter. 
Behind  thisstood  theauctioneer  and  cried thegoods, 
and  the  clerk  sat  there  making  notes,  and  Melchior 
Sinclaire  had  a  cask  of  gin  standing  beside  him. 
At  the  other  end  of  the  room,  in  the  hall,  and  out 
in  the  yard,  stood  the  buyers.  There  was  a  great 
crowd  of  people  and  much  shouting  and  laughter. 
The  sale  was  brisk,  and  one  thing  was  cried  after 
another,  while  by- the  side  of  his  cask,  with  all  his 
possessions  in  indescribable  confusion  behind  him, 
sat  Melchior  Sinclaire,  half  drunk  and  half  crazy. 
The  hair  stood  stiffly  erect  above  his  red  face,  his 
eyes  rolled  bloodshot  and  furious.  He  shouted  and 
laughed  as  if  he  were  in  the  best  of  tempers,  and  he 
called  up  every  purchaser  and  gave  him  a  glass  of 
his  gin. 

Among  those  who  saw  him  thus  was  Gosta  Ber- 
ling,  who  had  come  in  with  the  crowd,  but  avoided 


THE  AUCTION  AT  BJORNE  173 

being  seen  by  Melchior  Sinclaire.  He  became 
thoughtful  at  the  sight,  and  his  heart  contracted  as 
with  a  foreboding  of  misfortune. 

He  wondered  where  Marienne's  mother  could 
be  while  all  this  was  going  on,  and  he  went,  much 
against  his  will,  but  driven  by  fate,  to  seek  her. 

He  went  through  many  rooms  before  he  found 
her.  The  great  land  proprietor  had  but  short  pa- 
tience and  little  liking  for  women's  tears  and  wail- 
ing. He  had  grown  tired  of  seeing  her  tears  flow  at 
the  fate  overtaking  all  her  treasures.  He  was  furi- 
ous to  see  that  she  could  mourn  over  linen  and 
bedclothes  when  his  beautiful  daughter  was  lost 
to  them,  and  with  clenched  fists  he  had  driven  her 
before  him  through  all  the  house,  into  the  kitchen, 
and  even  into  the  pantry. 

She  could  go  no  further,  and  he  had  been  satis- 
fied at  seeing  her  there,  crouching  under  the  step- 
ladder  awaiting  a  blow,  perhaps  a  death-blow.  He 
let  her  remain  there,  but  he  locked  the  door  and 
put  the  key  into  his  pocket.  She  might  remain  there 
while  the  auction  lasted.  She  would  not  starve,  and 
his  ears  were  spared  her  wailing. 

There  she  sat  still,  a  prisoner  in  her  own  pan- 
try, when  Gosta  walked  down  the  corridor  to  the 
kitchen,  and  he  saw  her  face  at  a  high  little  win- 
dow which  opened  in  the  wall.  She  had  climbed 
up  the  step-ladder  and  was  gazing  out  of  her 
prison. 


i74  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

"What  is  Aunt  Gustafva  doing  up  there?'  he 
asked. 

"He  has  locked  me  in,"  she  whispered. 

"What!  Melchior  Sinclaire?" 

"Yes,  I  thought  he  would  kill  me.  But,  Gosta — 
get  the  key  of  the  salon  door  andgointo  the  kitchen 
and  open  the  pantry  door  with  it  so  that  I  can  get 
out.  That  key  fits." 

Gosta  obeyed,  and  a  few  minutes  later  the  little 
woman  was  in  the  kitchen,  which  was  quite  de- 
serted. 

"Aunt  should  have  told  one  of  the  servant-girls 
to  open  the  door  with  that  key,"  said  Gosta. 

"Do  you  think  I  would  teach  them  that  trick? 
I  should  never  have  anything  left  in  peace  in  the 
pantry  after  that.  And  besides,  I  began  to  put  the 
upper  shelves  there  into  order.  They  needed  it.  I 
can't  understand  how  I  allowed  so  much  rubbish  to 
collect  there." 

Aunt  has  so  much  to  look  after,"  said  Gosta. 
It 's  too  true.  If  I  am  not  seeing  to  everything, 
neither  the  spinning  nor  weaving  goes  right.  And 
if  ...  She  paused  and  wiped  a  tear  from  her 
eyes.  "God  help  me,  what  nonsense  I  'm  talking !': 
she  said.  "  I  won't  have  much  to  look  after  now. 
He  is  selling  all  we  have." 

"Yes,  it  is  a  miserable  business,"  said  Gosta. 

"You  remember  the  big  glass  in  the  drawing- 
room,  Gosta?  It  was  so  beautiful  because  the  glass 


cc 

(C 


THE  AUCTION  AT  BJORNE  175 

was  all  in  one  piece  and  without  a  scratch,  and 
there  wasn't  a  spot  on  the  gilding.  I  got  it  from  my 
mother,  and  now  he  wants  to  sell  it." 

"He  is  mad." 

"You  may  well  say  so.  It  can't  be  anything  else. 
He  won't  stop  till  he  has  beggared  us,  and  we  must 
tread  the  road  like  the  Major's  wife." 

"It  will  not  go  so  far  as  that." 

"  Yes,  Gosta.  When  the  Major's  wife  left  Ekeby, 
she  foretold  misfortune  for  us,  and  it  has  come. 
She  wouldn't  have  allowed  it — she  would  never 
have  allowed  him  to  sell  Bjorne.  And  think  of  it  — 
his  own  porcelain  —  the  real  china  cups  from  his 
own  home  are  to  be  sold !  She  would  never  have 
allowed  it." 

"  But  what  is  the  matter  with  him  ?  "  asked  Gosta. 

"Oh,  it  is  all  because  Marienne  has  not  returned. 
He  has  gone  about  waiting  and  waiting.  He  has 
walked  up  and  down  the  lane  for  days  waiting  for 
her.  He  will  go  mad  with  longing,  but  I  daren't 
say  anything." 

"Marienne  thinks  he  is  angry  with  her." 

"Oh,  no,she  doesn't  think  that;she  knows  him, 
but  she  is  proud  and  will  not  take  the  first  step. 
They  are  proud  and  hard,  both  of  them,  and  they 
are  in  no  trouble.  It  is  I  who  must  stand  between 
them." 

"Aunt  knows  that  Marienne  is  going  to  marry 
me?" 


176  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

"Oh,  Gosta,  she  never  will  do  that.  She  says  it 
only  to  madden  him.  She  is  too  spoiled  to  marry 
a  poor  man,  and  too  proud,  too.  Go  back  now  and 
tell  her  that  if  she  does  not  come  home  soon,  all 
her  inheritance  will  be  wasted.  He  will  destroy  it 
all  without  getting  anything  for  it." 

Gosta  was  really  angry  with  her.  There  she  sat 
on  the  big  kitchen  table,  and  had  no  heart  for  any- 
thing but  her  looking-glass  and  her  porcelain. 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed,  Aunt  Gustafva," 
he  exclaimed.  "You  turn  your  daughter  out  into 
the  snowdrifts,  and  then  you  think  it  simply  wick- 
edness of  her  not  to  return  home.  And  you  think 
no  better  of  her  than  that  she  would  desert  one 
she  cares  for  because  she  will  be  disinherited?" 

"  Dear  Gosta,  don't  be  angry  —  you  also.  I  hardly 
know  what  I  'm  saying.  I  tried  to  open  the  door 
for  Marienne,  but  he  dragged  me  away.  They  al- 
ways say  that  I  don't  understand  things.  I  don't 
grudge  you  Marienne,  Gosta,  if  you  can  make  her 
happy.  It  isn't  so  easy  to  make  a  woman  happy, 
Gosta." 

Gosta  looked  at  her.  How  could  he  have  lifted 
an  angry  voice  against  her?  She  looked  so  fright- 
ened, so  hunted  to  death ;  but  she  was  kind  hearted. 

"Aunt  has  not  inquired  how  Marienne  is,"  he 
said,  softly. 

She  burst  into  tears. 

"Don't  be  angry  if  I  ask,"  she  cried.  "I  have 


THE  AUCTION  AT  BJORNE  177 

longed  to  ask  you  all  the  time.  Think  of  it — I 
know  nothing  about  her  except  that  she  is  alive. 
I  have  heard  nothing  from  her  all  this  time,  not 
even  when  I  sent  her  some  clothes,  and  I  thought 
neither  of  you  meant  to  tell  me  anything." 

Gosta  could  not  withstand  the  pity  of  it.  He  was 
wild  and  giddy.  God  sometimes  sent  His  wolves 
after  him  to  compel  his  obedience,  but  the  tears  of 
that  old  mother  and  her  wailing  were  worse  to  bear 
than  the  howling  of  the  wolves.  He  told  her  the 
truth. 

"Marienne  has  been  ill  all  the  time,"  he  said. 
"  She  has  had  smallpox.  She  was  to  sit  up  to-day  on 
the  sofa.  I  have  not  seen  her  since  that  first  night." 

With  a  bound  Fru  Gustafva  was  on  the  floor. 
She  left  Gosta  standing  there  and  rushed  at  once  to 
her  husband.  The  people  in  the  auction  room  saw 
her  come  and  whisper  something  eagerly  in  his  ear. 
They  saw  his  face  redden,  while  his  hand  resting  on 
the  tap  of  the  cask  twisted  it  till  the  gin  flowed  over 
the  floor.  It  seemed  to  all  that  she  brought  impor- 
tant news  which  would  stop  the  sale.  The  auction- 
eer's voice  ceased,  the  clerks  stopped  writing,  there 
were  no  further  bids. 

Melchior  Sinclaire  awoke  from  his  thoughts. 
"  Well,"  he  screamed,  "  are  n't  you  to  go  on  ? "  And 
the  auction  was  in  full  swing  again. 

Gosta  still  sat  in  the  kitchen  when  Fru  Gustafva 
came  back  weeping  to  him.  "It  was  no  use,"  she 


178  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

said;  "I  thought  he  would  stop  when  he  heard 
Marienne  had  been  ill,  but  he  lets  them  continue. 
He  would  like  to  stop,  but  he  is  ashamed  now." 

Gosta  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  bade  her  fare- 
well. 

In  the  hall  he  met  Sintram. 

"A  devilish  funny  affair,"  exclaimed  Sintram, 
rubbing  his  hands.  "You  are  a  master-hand  at  get- 
ting up  such  things,  Gosta/' 

"It  will  be  funnier  still  in  a  little  while,"  whis- 
pered Gosta.  "The  Broby  parson  is  here  with  a 
sledgeful  of  money.  They  say  he  wants  to  buy  all 
Bjorne  and  pay  the  money  down,  and  I  should  just 
like  to  see  Melchior  Sinclairethen,  Uncle  Sintram." 

Sintram  dropped  his  head  between  his  shoulders 
and  laughed  to  himself  a  long  time.  Then  he  made 
off  to  the  auction  room  and  straight  to  Melchior 
Sinclaire. 

"If  you  want  a  glass,  Sintram,  you  have  got  to 
make  a  bid  first." 

Sintram  went  up  close  to  him.  "You  have  good 
luck  as  usual,  Melchior,"  he  said.  "A  great  man 
has  come  to  Bjorne  with  a  sledgeful  of  money.  He 
is  ready  to  buy  Bjorne  with  all  its  goods  and  chat- 
tels. He  has  arranged  with  a  number  of  people  to 
do  the  bidding  for  him.  I  suppose  he  doesn't  want 
to  show  himself  at  once." 

"  You  may  as  well  say  who  it  is,  and  I  will  give 
you  a  smack  for  your  trouble." 


THE  AUCTION  AT  BJORNE  179 

Sintram  took  the  smack  and  retreated  two  steps 
before  he  answered,"  It  is  the  Broby  parson,  Brother 
Melchior." 

Melchior  Sinclaire  had  many  better  friends  than 
the  Broby  parson.  There  was  a  feud  of  many  years' 
standing  between  them.  There  were  stories  of  the 
great  land  proprietor  having  lain  in  ambush  on  dark 
nights  on  the  road  where  the  parson  must  pass,  and 
having  given  many  a  good  honest  thrashing  to  that 
toady  and  grinder  of  the  poor. 

And  though  Sintram  had  retreated  a  few  steps, 
he  did  not  quite  escape  the  great  man's  anger.  He 
got  a  wineglass  between  his  eyes  and  the  whole 
cask  on  his  feet,  but  this  was  followed  by  a  scene 
which  gladdened  his  heart  for  many  a  day. 

"Does  the  Broby  parson  want  my  estate?' 
screamed  Sinclaire.  "Are  you  standing  there  and 
bidding  for  the  Broby  parson?  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed;  you  ought  to  know  better!"  He  caught 
up  a  candlestick  and  an  inkstand  and  flung  them 
at  the  crowd.  It  was  his  heart's  bitterness  finding 
expression.  Roaring  like  a  wild  beast,  he  shook  his 
fist  at  the  bystanders,  and  flung  whatever  he  could 
lay  his  hands  on  at  them.  The  brandy  bottles  and 
glasses  flew  across  the  room;  he  was  beside  him- 
self with  rage.  "The  auction  is  over,"  he  shouted. 
"  Out  with  you !  Never  while  I  live  shall  the  Broby 
parson  possess  Bjorne.  Out  with  you  all ;  I  '11  teach 
you  to  buy  in  for  the  Broby  parson!"  He  attacked 


i8o  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

the  auctioneer  and  the  clerks;  in  trying  to  escape, 
they  overturned  the  counter,  and  the  furious  squire 
was  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd.  A  stampede  ensued 
— :more  than  a  hundred  men  rushed  toward  the 
door  fleeing  from  one.  And  he  stood  still  shouting, 
"Out  with  you!'  He  sent  curses  after  them,  and 
now  and  then  he  swung  over  his  head  a  chair,  which 
he  had  used  as  a  weapon.  He  followed  them  into 
the  hall,  but  no  further.  When  the  last  stranger  left 
the  doorstep,  he  returned  to  the  salon  and  bolted  the 
door  after  him.  Then  he  gathered  together  a  mat- 
tress and  a  pair  of  cushions,  and  lay  down  and  went 
to  sleep  amid  all  the  wild  disorder,  and  did  not 
wake  till  next  day. 

When  Gosta  got  home  he  was  told  that  Mari- 
enne  wished  to  speak  to  him.  It  was  just  what  he 
wanted.  He  had  wondered  how  he  might  see  her. 
When  he  entered  the  dimly  lighted  room  in  which 
she  lay,  he  was  obliged  to  pause  a  moment  at  the 
door,  for  he  could  not  distinguish  her. 

"Stay  where  you  are,  Gosta,"  said  Marienne  to 
him.  "  It  is  perhaps  dangerous  to  come  near  me." 

But  Gosta  had  come,  taking  the  stairs  in  two 
strides,  trembling  with  eager  longing.  What  cared 
he  now  for  infection?  He  longed  for  the  bliss  of 
again  seeing  her.  She  was  so  beautiful,  his  beloved. 
No  one  had  such  soft  hair,  such  a  clear,  open  brow; 
all  her  face  was  a  play  of  lovely  curves.  He  thought 
of  her  eyebrows,  sharply  and  clearly  pencilled  like 


THE  AUCTION  AT  BJORNE  181 

the  stamens  of  a  lily,  of  the  daring  curve  of  the 
nose,  and  the  soft  wave  of  the  lips,  and  the  long 
oval  of  her  cheek,  and  the  refined  cut  of  her  chin. 
And  he  thought  of  the  clear  complexion,  of  the  be- 
witching expression  made  by  the  black  eyebrows 
under  the  fair  hair,  and  of  the  blue  eyes  in  their 
white  setting,  and  of  the  gleam  of  light  which  hid 
in  the  corners  of  them.  She  was  so  lovely,  his  be- 
loved. He  thought  of  the  warm  heart  hiding  under 
her  haughty  mien.  She  had  strength  for  love  and 
self-sacrifice  under  that  fine  skin  and  those  proud 
words.  It  was  bliss  to  see  her  again.  He  had  made 
two  steps  of  the  stairs,  did  she  think  he  would  stand 
now  at  the  door?  He  sprang  through  the  room  and 
knelt  at  her  sofa.  He  meant  to  see  her,  kiss  her, 
and  bid  her  farewell.  He  loved  her,  and  would  prob- 
ably never  cease  to  love  her,  but  his  heart  was  ac- 
customed to  suffering.  Oh,  where  was  he  to  find  her, 
the  rose  without  support  or  root  which  he  might 
gather  and  call  his  own?  He  could  not  even  keep 
her  he  had  found  deserted  and  half  dead  in  the 
snowdrift.  When  would  his  love  raise  its  song,  a 
song  so  high  and  pure  that  no  discord  would  rend 
it?  When  could  his  happiness  build  on  a  ground 
which  no  other  soul  longed  for?  He  thought  of  his 
farewell  to  her. 

"There  is  great  trouble  in  your  home  to-day," 
he  would  say.  "  My  heart  ached  at  the  sight  of  it. 
You  must  go  home  and  bring  your  father  to  his 


182  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

senses.  Your  mother  lives  in  constant  fear  of  her 
life.  You  must  go  home  again,  my  dearest." 

He  had  those  renunciating  words  on  his  lips,  but 
they  remained  unuttered.  He  fell  on  his  knees  by 
the  pillow,  and  he  took  her  head  between  his  hands 
and  kissed  it,  and  after  that  he  found  no  words. 
His  heart  was  beating  so  violently,  it  threatened  to 
burst  its  bonds.  The  smallpox  had  gone  over  the 
lovely  face.  Its  complexion  was  coarsened.  Never 
again  would  the  red  blood  show  in  the  fair  cheeks, 
nor  the  blue  veins  line  the  temples.  The  eyes  lay 
heavy  under  swollen  lids,  the  eyebrows  were  gone, 
and  the  white  of  the  eyes  was  tinged  with  yellow. 
All  was  ruined.  The  daring  curves  were  lost  in  heav- 
iness. There  were  many  who  mourned  Marienne 
Sinclaire's  beauty,  now  lost.  All  over  Varmland  the 
people  grieved  over  her  lost  fairness,  her  shining 
eyes  and  beautiful  hair.  Beauty  is  prized  there  as 
nowhere  else,  and  the  people  sorrowed  as  if  they 
had  lost  one  of  the  brightest  jewels  in  their  crown, 
as  if  the  sunniness  of  life  had  received  a  flaw. 

But  the  first  man  who  saw  her  after  she  had  lost 
her  beauty  did  not  grieve. 

Unutterable  feelings  filled  his  soul.  The  longer 
he  gazed  at  her,  the  happier  he  grew.  His  love  in- 
creased like  a  river  in  spring-time,  it  swelled  from 
his  heart  in  waves  of  fire,  it  filled  all  his  being,  it 
rose  to  his  eyes  in  tears,  sighed  on  his  lips,  shook  in 
his  hands  and  in  all  his  being. 


THE  AUCTION  AT  BJORNE  183 

Oh,  to  love  her,  protect  and  cherish  her!  To  be 
her  slave,  her  guardian! 

Love  is  strong  when  it  has  gone  through  the 
fire  of  pain.  He  could  not  talk  to  Marienne  of  sepa- 
ration and  self-sacrifice  now.  He  could  not  leave 
her.  He  was  indebted  to  her  for  his  life.  He  would 
have  committed  crimes  for  her  sake. 

He  could  not  speak  one  sensible  word,  only 
wept  and  kissed  her,  till  the  old  nurse  came  to  say 
it  was  time  he  should  go. 

When  he  was  gone,  Marienne  lay  and  thought 
of  his  being  so  moved.  "  It  is  good  to  be  loved  like 
that,"  she  thought. 

Yes,  it  was  good  to  be  loved,  but  how  was  it 
with  herself?  What  did  she  feel?  Oh,  nothing,  less 
than  nothing. 

Was  her  love  dead,  or  what  had  become  of  it? 
Where  had  the  child  of  her  heart  hidden  itself? 
Did  it  live,  had  it  crept  into  the  darkest  corner  of 
her  heart  and  lay  there  freezing  under  the  gaze  of 
those  icy  eyes,  frightened  by  that  pale,  sneering 
laugh,  half  smothered  under  those  hard,  knotted 
fingers? 

"Oh,  my  love,"  she  sighed,  "my  heart's  child! 
Do  you  live,  or  are  you  dead,  as  dead  as  my  beauty  ? ' 


Next  day  the  great  squire,  Melchior  Sinclaire,  went 
early  to  his  wife. 


1 84  COST  A  BERLING'S  SAGA 

"See  that  everything  is  put  in  order  again  here, 
Gustafva,"  he  said;  "I  am  going  to  bring  Mari- 
enne  home." 

"Yes,  dear  Melchior,  I  will  put  it  all  in  order 
again,"  she  answered. 

And  everything  was  clear  between  them. 

An  hour  later  he  was  on  his  way  to  Ekeby. 
There  were  not  many  nobler-looking  or  kindlier 
old  gentlemen  than  the  great  squire,  as  he  sat  in 
his  sledge  in  his  best  fur  coat  and  belt.  His  hair 
was  smoothly  combed,  but  his  face  was  pale,  and  his 
eyes  appeared  to  have  sunk  in  their  sockets. 

And  there  seemed  no  end  to  the  glory  which 
streamed  from  heaven  that  February  morning.  The 
snow  glittered  like  a  girl's  eyes  when  the  first  notes 
of  a  waltz  are  being  played.  The  birches  stretched 
their  fine  network  of  red-brown  branches  over  the 
sky,  and  some  of  them  had  fingers  of  small,  spar- 
kling icictes.  There  was  a  glory  and  holiday  glitter 
about  the  day.  The  horses  pranced,  lifting  high  their 
forefeet,  and  the  coachman  cracked  his  whip  in 
pure  joy.  After  a  short  drive,  the  sledge  drew  up 
before  the  great  entrance  to  Ekeby. 

A  servant  came  out. 

"Where  are  your  masters? "  asked  the  squire. 

"They  are  hunting  the  great  bear  on  Gurlita 
Cliff." 

"All  of  them?" 

"All  of  them,  sir.  He  that  has  not  gone  for  the 


THE  AUCTION  AT  BJORNE  185 

sake  of  the  bear  has  certainly  gone  for  the  sake  of  the 
provision  basket." 

Melchior  Sinclaire  laughed  till  it  echoed  in  the 
empty  yard.  He  gave  the  servant  a  daler  for  his 
sharp  answer. 

"Go  and  tell  my  daughter  that  I  have  come  to 
fetch  her.  She  won't  freeze,  for  I  have  the  sledge 
cover  and  a  wolf-skin  rug  to  wrap  her  in." 

"Will  not  the  squire  please  to  enter?1 

"Thanks.  I  am  well  enough  here." 

The  man  disappeared,  and  Melchior  began  his 
waiting.  He  was  in  such  splendid  mood  that  day, 
nothing  could  anger  him.  He  expected  to  wait 
some  time  for  Marienne,  probably  she  was  not  up 
yet.  He  must  amuse  himself  by  looking  about  him. 

A  long  icicle  hung  from  the  point  of  the  roof, 
and  the  sun  gave  himself  much  trouble  in  melting 
it.  It  began  from  the  top,  melted  a  drop,  and  wanted 
it  to  run  down  the  icicle  and  fall  to  earth,  but 
before  it  reached  halfway,  it  froze  up  afresh,  and 
the  sunshine  made  another  effort  and  another,  but 
always  failed.  At  last  there  came  a  free-lance  of  a 
little  sunbeam,  which  took  possession  of  the  tip  of 
the  icicle — a  tiny  little  sunbeam,  which  shone  and 
glittered  with  eagerness,  till  at  last  it  gained  its 
point,  and  a  drop  fell  with  a  splash  to  the  ground. 

The  great  land  proprietor  watched  it  and  laughed. 
"That  was  n't  at  all  so  stupid  of  you,"  he  said  to 
the  sunbeam. 


1 86  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

The  courtyard  was  quiet  and  deserted.  Not  a 
sound  was  heard  from  the  big  house,  but  the  squire 
was  not  impatient.  He  knew  that  womenkind  need 
a  long  time  to  get  ready. 

He  looked  at  the  dovecot.  There  was  a  wire 
over  the  opening.  The  birds  were  shut  in  for  the  win- 
ter so  that  the  hawks  might  not  get  them.  Every 
now  and  then  a  dove  came  and  stuck  its  white 
head  through  the  bars. 

"She  is  waiting  for  spring,"  said  Sinclaire,  "but 
she  must  have  patience  yet/' 

The  pigeon  came  so  regularly  to  the  bars  that 
he  took  out  his  watch  and  timed  her.  She  put  out 
her  head  precisely  every  third  minute. 

"No,  my  little  friend,"  he  said;  "do  you  think 
that  spring  can  be  ready  in  three  minutes  ?  You  must 
learn  to  wait." 

And  he  had  to  wait  himself,  but  he  was  in  no 
hurry. 

The  horses  scraped  the  snow  impatiently  with 
their  feet  at  first,  but  they  soon  became  drowsy 
standing  blinking  in  the  sunshine.  They  leaned 
their  heads  together  and  went  to  sleep. 

The  coachman  sat  stiffly  on  his  seat,  with  his 
reins  and  whip  in  his  hand,  facing  the  sun,  and 
slept — slept  so  soundly  that  he  snored. 

But  Melchior  Sinclaire  was  not  asleep.  He  never 
felt  less  like  it.  He  had  seldom  spent  such  pleasant 
hours  as  while  waiting  there  for  Marienne.  She  had 


THE  AUCTION  AT  BJORNE  187 

been  ill.  She  could  not  come  before,  but  she  would 
come  now.  Of  course  she  would,  and  all  would  be 
well  again.  She  would  understand  now  that  he  was 
not  angry  with  her.  He  had  come  for  her  himself 
with  two  horses  and  a  sledge. 

Near  the  opening  of  the  beehive  a  great  titmouse 
was  engaged  upon  a  perfectly  fiendish  trick.  He 
must  have  his  dinner,  of  course,  and  he  tapped, 
therefore,  at  the  opening  with  his  sharp  little  beak. 
Inside  the  hive  the  bees  hung  in  a  big,  dark  clus- 
ter. Everything  within  was  in  the  strictest  order. 
The  workers  dealt  out  the  rations,  and  the  cup- 
bearers ran  from  mouth  to  mouth  with  the  nectar 
and  ambrosia.  With  a  constant  creeping  movement 
those  hanging  in  the  middle  of  the  swarm  changed 
places  with  those  on  the  outside,  so  that  warmth 
and  comfort  might  be  equally  divided. 

They  hear  the  titmouse  tapping,  and  the  whole 
hive  becomes  a  buzz  of  curiosity.  Is  it  a  friend  or 
an  enemy?  Is  there  danger  to  the  community?  The 
queen  has  a  bad  conscience,  she  cannot  wait  in  peace 
and  quietness.  Can  it  be  the  ghosts  of  murdered 
drones  that  are  tapping  out  there?  "Go  and  see 
what  it  is,"  she  orders  Sister  Doorkeeper,  and  she 
goes.  With  a  "Long  live  the  Queen!"  she  rushes 
out  and  —  ha! — the  titmouse  has  got  her!  With 
outstretched  neck  and  wings,  trembling  with  eager- 
ness, he  catches,  kills,  and  eats  her,  and  no  one 
carries  the  tale  of  her  fate  to  her  companions.  But 


GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

the  titmouse  continues  to  tap  and  the  queen  to  send 
forth  her  doorkeepers,  and  they  all  disappear.  No 
one  returns  to  tell  her  who  is  tapping.  Ugh!  it  is 
awful  to  be  alone  in  the  dark  hive  —  the  spirit  of 
revenge  is  there.  Oh,  to  be  without  ears!  If  one 
only  felt  no  curiosity,  if  one  could  only  wait  in  pa- 
tience ! 

Melchior  Sinclaire  laughed  till  tears  filled  his 
eyes  at  the  silly  womenkind  in  the  beehive  and  the 
sharp,  greeny-yellow  little  rascal  outside. 

There  is  no  great  difficulty  in  waiting  when  you 
are  sure  of  your  object,  and  when  there  is  so  much 
to  engage  your  thoughts. 

There  comes  the  big  yard  dog.  He  steps  along 
on  the  tips  of  his  toes,  keeps  his  eyes  on  the  ground, 
and  wags  his  tail  gently,  as  if  he  were  on  the  most 
indifferent  errand.  Suddenly  he  begins  digging  in 
the  snow.  The  old  rascal  has  certainly  buried  stolen 
goods  there;  but  just  as  he  lifts  his  head  to  see  if 
he  can  enjoy  in  peace,  he  is  surprised  to  see  two 
magpies  sitting  right  before  him. 

"You  thief!"  cry  the  magpies,  looking  like  con- 
science itself,  "we  are  police  constables;  give  up 
your  booty." 

"Silence!  you  rabble,  I  am  the  yard  bailiff." 

"Just  the  man,"  they  sneer. 

The  dog  springs  at  them,  and  they  fly  up  with 
lazy  wing.  He  rushes  on,  jumping  and  barking; 
but  while  he  hunts  one,  the  other  has  returned  to 


THE  AUCTION  AT  BJORNE          189 

the  meat.  She  pulls  and  tears  at  it,  but  cannot  lift 
it.  The  dog  snatches  it  away,  places  it  between  his 
forepaws,  and  begins  his  dinner.  The  magpies  seat 
themselves  before  him,  and  continue  their  dispar- 
aging remarks.  He  glances  savagely  at  them,  and 
when  it  gets  quite  too  bad,  he  springs  up  and  chases 
them  away. 

The  sun  began  to  sink  behind  the  western  hills. 
Melchior  Sinclaire  looked  at  his  watch ;  it  was  three 
o'clock,  and  mother  had  had  dinner  ready  at  twelve. 

Just  then  the  servant  came  out  and  said  Mari- 
enne  wished  to  speak  to  him. 

He  placed  the  wolf-skin  rug  over  his  arm  and 
marched  up  the  stairs  in  the  best  of  humors. 

When  Marienne  heard  his  heavy  step  on  the 
stairs,  she  did  not  know  whether  she  would  accom- 
pany him  home  or  not.  She  only  knew  she  must  put 
an  end  to  the  waiting.  She  had  hoped  the  cavaliers 
would  come  home,  but  they  did  not.  She  must  then 
take  matters  in  hand  herself,  she  could  not  bear  it 
any  longer.  She  had  imagined  he  would  go  his  way 
in  anger  after  waiting  five  minutes,  or  that  he  would 
break  the  door  in,  or  set  fire  to  the  house. 

But  there  he  sat,  calm  and  smiling,  and  waited. 
She  felt  neither  love,  nor  hate  toward  him;  but  an 
inner  voice  seemed  to  warn  her  against  giving  her- 
self into  his  power  again,  and  besides,  she  wished  to 
keep  her  word  to  Gosta. 

If  he  had  fallen  asleep,  if  he  had  spoken  or  been 


190  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

restless  or  shown  a  sign  of  doubt,  if  he  had  even 
ordered  the  sledge  to  stand  in  the  shade  —  but  he 
was  all  patience  and  certainty — sure,  so  infectiously 
sure,  that  she  would  come  if  he  only  waited. 

Her  head  ached,  every  nerve  quivered.  She  could 
get  no  peace  while  he  sat  there.  It  seemed  as  if  his 
will  were  dragging  her,  bound  hand  and  foot,  down- 
stairs. 

Then  she  decided  to  speak  to  him. 

Before  he  came  she  made  the  nurse  pull  up  the 
blinds,  and  she  lay  so  that  her  face  was  distinctly 
seen.  By  this  she  meant  to  put  him  to  the  proof; 
but  Melchior  Sinclaire  was  a  wonderful  man  that 
day. 

When  he  saw  her,  he  made  no  gesture,  no  cry  of 
surprise.  It  seemed  as  if  he  saw  no  difference  in  her. 
She  knew  how  he  had  prized  her  beauty;  but  he 
showed  no  grief  now,  and  kept  control  over  all  his 
being  so  as  not  to  cause  her  any  farther  sorrow. 
This  touched  her,  and  she  began  to  understand  how 
it  was  that  her  mother  still  loved  him.  He  showed 
no  sign  of  hesitation.  He  came  with  no  reproaches 
or  excuses. 

"I  will  wrap  you  in  the  wolf-skin,  Marienne.  It 
isn't  cold,  it  has  been  lying  on  my  knee  all  the 
time." 

In  any  case  he  went  forward  to  the  fire  and 
warmed  it.  Afterwards  he  helped  her  to  rise,  wrapped 
the  fur  about  her,  drew  a  shawl  over  her  head,  pulled 


THE  AUCTION  AT  BJORNE  191 

it  under  her  arms,  and  tied  it  at  the  back.  She  let 
him  do  it.  She  had  no  will.  It  was  good  to  be  com- 
manded, it  was  restful  to  have  no  will.  Best  of  all 
for  one  so  tortured  by  self-analysis,  for  one  who 
owned  neither  a  thought  nor  a  feeling  that  was  her 
own! 

Melchior  Sinclaire  lifted  her  up,  carried  her  down 
to  the  sledge,  threw  back  the  cover,  placed  her  be- 
side him,  and  drove  away  from  Ekeby. 

She  shut  her  eyes  and  sighed,  half  in  satisfaction, 
half  in  sadness.  She  was  leaving  life,  real  life,  behind 
her,  but  after  all,  it  was  a  matter  of  indifference  to 
her,  who  could  not  really  live,  but  only  play  a  part. 


A  few  days  later  her  mother  arranged  that  she 
should  see  Gosta.  She  sent  for  him  while  her  hus- 
band had  gone  for  a  long  walk  up  to  the  timber 
stacks,  and  took  him  to  Marienne. 

Gosta  entered  the  room,  but  he  neither  greeted 
nor  spoke  to  her.  He  remained  standing  at  the  door, 
looking  at  the  floor  like  an  awkward  boy. 

"  But, Gosta! "exclaimed  Marienne.  She  was  sit- 
ting in  her  armchair  and  looked  at  him  half  amused. 

"Yes,  that  is  my  name." 

"Come  here,  come  nearer  to  me,  Gosta." 

He  came  forward  quietly,  but  did  not  lift  his 
eyes. 

"Come  nearer,  kneel  here!' 


192  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

" Good  God !  what  is  the  use  of  all  this  ? "  he  ex- 
claimed, but  obeyed. 

"Gosta,  I  wanted  to  tell  you  I  thought  it  best  to 
come  home/' 

"We  will  hope  that  they  do  not  turn  Froken 
Marienne  into  the  snowdrifts  again/' 

"Oh,  Gosta,  don't  you  love  me  any  more?  Do 
you  think  me  so  ugly?' 

He  drew  her  head  down  and  kissed  her,  but  he 
was  just  as  cold  as  before. 

She  was  really  amused.  If  he  chose  to  be  jealous 
of  her  parents,  what  did  it  matter?  It  would  pass. 
It  amused  her  now  to  win  him  back.  She  hardly 
knew  why  she  wanted  him,  but  she  did.  She  remem- 
bered that  he  had  freed  her  from  herself  once  at 
least;  he  was  probably  the  only  one  who  could  do 
it  again.  And  she  began  to  speak  eagerly  to  him. 
She  said  it  had  not  been  her  intention  to  desert 
him,  but  they  must,  for  the  sake  of  appearances, 
break  this  engagement  for  a  time.  He  had  seen  him- 
self that  her  father  was  on  the  verge  of  madness, 
and  her  mother  lived  in  constant  fear  of  her  life. 
He  must  understand  that  she  had  been  obliged  to 
return  home. 

Then  his  anger  found  words.  She  need  not  pre- 
tend. He  would  no  longer  be  her  plaything.  She 
had  jilted  him  as  soon  as  she  found  she  might  re- 
turn home,  and  he  could  not  love  her  any  more.  On 
the  day  when  he  came  home  from  the  bear  hunt 


THE  AUCTION  AT  BJORNE  193 

and  found  her  gone  without  a  word  of  farewell,  his 
blood  had  stood  still  in  his  veins,  and  he  had  nearly 
died  of  sorrow.  He  could  not  love  her  after  the 
pain  she  had  caused  him.  And  she  had  never  really 
loved  him.  She  was  a  coquette  who  wanted  some 
one  to  kiss  and  caress  her  here  at  home  too  —  that 
was  all. 

Did  he  think,  then,  she  usually  let  young  men 
kiss  and  caress  her? 

Oh,  yes,  why  not?  Women  were  not  so  holy  as 
they  looked.  They  were  made  up  of  selfishness  and 
coquetry.  No,  if  she  knew  what  he  had  felt  when 
he  came  home  from  the  woods  and  found  her  gone ! 
He  felt  as  if  he  had  waded  in  ice  water.  He  would 
never  get  over  that  pain.  It  would  follow  him  all  his 
life,  and  he  would  never  be  the  same  again. 

She  tried  to  explain  to  him  how  it  all  happened ; 
she  reminded  him  that  she  had  been  true  through 
it  all. 

Yes,  but  it  was  all  the  same,  for  he  did  n't  love 
her  any  longer.  He  had  seen  through  her,  she  was 
selfish.  She  never  had  loved  him,  she  had  left  him 
without  a  word. 

He  constantly  returned  to  this,  and  she  almost 
enjoyed  the  scene,  for  she  could  not  be  angry.  She 
understood  his  anger  so  well,  she  did  not  even  fear 
any  real  break  between  them.  But  at  last  she  grew 
anxious.  Had  such  a  change  really  taken  place  that 
he  cared  no  more  for  her? 


194  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

"Gosta,"  she  said,  "was  I  selfish  when  I  went  to 
Sjo  for  the  Major?  I  remembered  very  well  that  the 
smallpox  was  there.  Neither  is  it  pleasant  to  be  out 
in  thin  shoes  in  the  cold  snow/' 

"Love  lives  by  love,  and  not  by  service  and  good 
works/'  he  replied. 

"You  want  us  to  be  strangers  in  the  future?' 

"Yes." 

"Gosta  Berling  is  very  changeable." 

"They  say  so." 

He  was  apathetic,  impossible  to  awaken,  and 
really  she  felt  herself  even  colder.  Self-analysis  sat 
and  sneered  at  her  attempt  to  play  at  being  in  love. 

"Gosta,"  she  pleaded  at  last,  "  I  have  never  wil- 
fully wronged  you,  even  if  it  has  seemed  like  it.  I 
beg  you,  forgive  me!'1 

"I  cannot  forgive  you." 

She  knew  that  if  she  had  had  any  whole  feeling 
about  her  she  could  have  won  him,  and  she  tried 
to  act  a  passionate  love.  The  icy  eyes  mocked  her, 
but  she  tried  in  any  case.  She  did  not  want  to  lose 
him. 

"Don't  go,  Gosta,  don't  leave  meinanger.Think 
how  ugly  I  have  become  now.  No  one  will  love  me 
again." 

"I  don't  love  you  either,"  he  answered.  "You 
must  get  accustomed  to  having  your  heart  tram- 
pled upon,  as  others  do." 

"Gosta,  I  have  never  been  able  to  love  any  one 


THE  AUCTION  AT  BJORNE  195 

but  you.  Forgive  me,  and  don't  leave  me.  You  are 
the  only  one  who  can  save  me  from  myself." 

He  pushed  her  aside. 

"You  are  not  speaking  the  truth/'  he  said,  with 
icy  calm.  "  I  don't  know  what  you  want  of  me,  but 
I  see  you  are  lying.  Why  would  you  keep  me?  You 
are  so  rich,  there  will  always  be  lovers  for  you." 

So  he  left  her.  And  as  soon  as  he  closed  the  door, 
longing  and  pain  made  entrance  in  all  their  majesty 
into  Marienne's  heart.  It  was  Love,  her  heart's  one 
child,  who  came  forth  from  the  corner  where  the  icy 
eyes  had  hidden  him.  He,  the  longed-for  one,  came 
now  when  it  was  too  late.  All-powerful,  he  took 
possession,  and  longing  and  pain  bore  up  his  kingly 
mantle. 

When  Marienne  could  with  certainty  say  to  her- 
self that  Gosta  Berling  had  deserted  her,  she  expe- 
rienced a  purely  physical  pain,  so  dreadful  that  she 
nearly  lost  consciousness.  She  pressed  her  hands 
against  her  heart,  and  sat  for  hours  in  the  same  po- 
sition, fighting  her  tearless  grief.  And  she  suffered 
—  she,  herself,  not  a  stranger  nor  an  outsider.  She, 
herself,  suffered  it  all.  Why  had  her  father  come 
and  separated  them?  Her  love  had  not  been  dead. 
It  was  only  that  in  the  weakness  subsequent  to  her 
illness  she  could  not  feel  its  power. 

Oh,  God,  oh,  God, to  lose  him!  Oh, God,  to  have 
awakened  too  late !  He  was  the  only  man  who  had 
conquered  her  heart.  She  could  bear  all  from  him. 


196  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

Angry  words  and  harshness  from  him  only  bowed 
her  downin  humble  love.  If  he  struck  her,  she  would 
creep  to  his  hand  like  a  dog  and  kiss  it.  She  did  not 
know  what  to  do  to  find  alleviation  for  this  dumb 
pain. 

She  caught  up  a  pen  and  some  paper  and  began 
to  write.  She  wrote  of  her  love  and  her  longing,  and 
she  begged  not  for  his  love  but  for  mercy.  It  was 
a  kind  of  verse  that  she  wrote.  When  she  finished, 
she  thought  that  perhaps  if  he  saw  it  he  might  be- 
lieve in  her  love.  Why  should  she  not  send  it  to 
him?  She  would  send  it  next  day,  and  she  quite 
believed  that  it  would  bring  him  back  to  her. 

Next  day  she  went  about  in  mental  strife  with 
herself.  What  she  had  written  seemed  so  weak,  so 
feeble.  It  had  neither  rhyme  nor  metre:  it  was  only 
prose.  He  might  laugh  at  such  poetry,  and  her  pride 
awoke,  too.  If  he  did  not  love  her,  it  was  a  great 
degradation  to  beg  for  his  love.  Now  and  again  pru- 
dence whispered  that  she  ought  to  be  thankful  to 
have  escaped  the  connection  with  Gosta  Berling  and 
all  the  wretched  circumstances  it  would  bring  in  its 
train.  But  the  aching  of  her  heart  was  so  great  that 
her  feelings,  after  all,  must  have  their  way. 

Three  days  later  she  put  the  verses  in  an  envelope 
and  wrote  Gosta  Berling's  name  upon  it.  Still  they 
were  not  sent.  Before  she  found  a  suitable  messen- 
ger, she  heard  such  tales  of  Gosta  Berling  that  she 
felt  it  was  too  late  to  win  him  back.  But  it  became 


THE  AUCTION  AT  BJORNE  197 

the  sorrow  of  her  life  that  she  had  not  sent  the 
verses  in  time  to  win  him.  All  her  pain  circled  round 
that  point.  "If  I  had  not  waited  so  long;  if  I  had 
not  let  so  many  days  go  by."  Those  written  words 
would  have  given  her  happiness  or  at  least  life's 
reality.  She  was  certain  they  would  have  brought 
him  back. 

Sorrow  did  for  her  the  same  service  love  would 
have  done.  It  moulded  her  into  a  whole  individu- 
ality with  a  strength  of  devotion  for  good  or  evil. 
Strong  feelings  streamed  through  her  soul,  never 
again  frozen  by  the  spirit  of  self-analysis.  And  so, 
in  spite  of  her  lost  beauty,  she  was  greatly  loved. 
Yet  they  say  she  never  forgot  Gosta  Berling.  She 
mourned  him  as  one  mourns  over  a  wasted  life. 

And  her  poor  verses,  which  were  much  read  at 
one  time,  have  long  since  been  forgotten.  Yet  they 
are  very  touching,  as  I  look  at  them,  written  on  yel- 
lowed paper  in  faded  ink,  in  a  close,  elegant  hand- 
writing. There  is  the  longing  of  a  whole  life  bound 
up  in  those  poor  words,  and  I  copy  them  with  a 
mysterious  sense  of  awe,  as  if  some  secret  strength 
lay  in  them. 

I  beg  you  to  read  and  think  them  over.  Who 
knows  what  power  they  might  have  had  if  they  had 
been  sent?  They  are  passionate  enough  to  bear  wit- 
ness to  true  feeling.  Perhaps  they  would  have 
brought  him  back  to  her.  They  are  tender  and  wist- 
ful in  their  awkward  formlessness.  No  one  would 


198  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

wish  them  different.  No  one  would  wish  them  bound 
in  the  chains  of  rhyme  and  metre,  and  yet  it  is  sad 
to  remember  that  it  was  perhaps  this  imperfection 
which  prevented  her  sending  them  in  time. 

I  beg  you  to  read  them  and  to  love  them.  It  was 
a  human  heart  in  great  need  that  inspired  them. 

"  Child,  you  have  loved,  but  ne'er  again 
Shall  you  taste  of  the  pleasure  of  love. 
The  storms  of  passion  have  shaken  your  soul; 
Be  thankful  you  '/I  now  be  at  rest. 
Ne'ermore  shall  you  soar  to  the  heights  of  love; 
Be  thankful  you  now  are  at  rest! 
Ne'er  again  shall  you  sink  to  the  depths  of  pain — 
Ne'er  again. 

u  Child,  you  have  loved,  but  ne'er  again 
Will  your  soul  ever  burst  into  flame. 
You  were  filled,  like  a  field  of  sun-dried  grass, 
For  a  moment  with  burning  fire. 
Before  the  clouds  of  smoke  and  the  burning  coal, 
Heaven's  birds  fled  forth  with  frightened  screams. 
Let  them  turn  again!  for  never  again  — 
You  '//  ne' er  burn  again. 

"  Child,  he  is  gone — 


And  with  him  all  love  and  the  pleasures  of  love — 
He  whom  you  had  loved,  as  if  he  had  taught 
Your  pinions  flight  in  the  heavens  above, 


THE  AUCTION  AT  BJORNE  199 

He  whom  you  loved,  as  if  he  had  given  you 
The  only  safe  spot  in  an  overwhelmed  world. 
He  is  gone — he  who  alone  understood  how  to  open 
The  door  of  your  heart. 

"I  would  entreat  you  for  one  thing,  oh,  my  beloved! — 
Lay  not  on  me  the  burden  of  hate! 

The  weakest  of  all  weak  things  is  it  not  a  human  heart? 
How  should  it  then  endure  the  awful  thought 
That  it  is  a  torment  to  others? 
Oh,  my  beloved,  if  you  would  kill  me, 
Seek  not  daggers  or  poison  or  rope; 

"  Let  me  but  know  that  you  would  have  me  turn 
From  earth's  green  fields,  from  the  kingdom  of  life, 
And  I  will  sink  into  my  grave. 
You  gave  me  the  life  of  life,  you  gave  me  love, 
But  you  take  your  love  again.  Oh,  I  know  it  well, 
But  turn  it  not  to  hate! 
Oh,  remember — I  would  still  live — 
Yet  I  would  die  beneath  the  burden  of  hate." 


The  Young  Countess 

THE  young  Countess  slept  till  ten  o'clock 
every  morning,  and  liked  to  have  fresh  bread 
every  day  on  the  breakfast  table.  The  young  Count- 
ess did  tambour  work  and  read  poetry;  she  under- 
stood nothing  of  cooking  or  weaving.  The  young 
Countess  was  decidedly  spoiled.  But  she  was  joy- 
ous and  let  her  happiness  shine  upon  everything 
and  everybody.  The  long  sleep  in  the  morning  and 
the  fresh  bread  were  easily  forgiven  her,  for  she  was 
a  spendthrift  in  doing  good  to  the  poor  and  was 
friendly  to  every  one. 

Her  father  was  a  Swedish  nobleman,  who  had 
spent  all  his  life  in  Italy,  kept  prisoner  there  by 
the  beauty  of  the  country  and  by  one  of  its  beau- 
tiful daughters.  When  Count  Henrik  Dohna  had 
travelled  in  Italy,  he  had  been  received  in  their 
home,  he  had  learned  to  know  the  daughters,  had. 
married  one  of  them  and  brought  her  back  to 
Sweden. 

She,  who  had  always  known  Sweden  and  had 
been  brought  up  to  love  all  that  was  Swedish,  was 
very  happy  in  the  "Bear  Country/3  She  whirled 
along  so  gaily  in  the  long  dance  of  pleasure  that  cir- 
cled round  the  Lofven  shore,  you  might  imagine 
she  had  always  lived  there.  She  understood  little  of 
what  it  meant  to  be  a  countess.  There  was  no  state- 


THE  YOUNG  COUNTESS  201 

liness,  no  stiffness,  no  patronizing  air  about  that  gay 
young  creature. 

The  old  gentlemen  were  perhaps  the  most  fond 
of  her.  After  they  had  seen  her  at  a  ball,  you  could 
be  quite  certain  that  every  one  of  them  —  the  Judge 
at  Munkerud  and  the  Rector  of  Bro,  Melchior  Sin- 
claire  and  the  Captain  at  Berga — they  all  confided 
to  their  wives  in  the  strictest  confidence  that  if  they 
had  met  her  thirty  or  forty  years  ago  — ! 

"Yes,  but  she  certainly  had  not  been  born  then," 
cried  the  old  ladies.  And  the  next  time  they  met 
they  teased  the  young  Countess  about  stealing  the 
.hearts  of  the  old  gentlemen  from  them. 

The  old  ladies  watched  her  with  a  certain  amount 
of  anxiety.  They  remembered  so  well  Countess 
Marta.  She,  too,  had  been  joyous  and  good  and  be- 
loved when  she  first  came  to  Borg.  And  she  was  now 
nothing  but  a  vain  coquette,  and  could  think  of 
nothing  butamusement.  "If  she  only  had  a  husband 
who  would  make  her  do  some  work,"  said  the  old 
ladies.  "  If  she  would  only  set  up  a  loom" — for  to 
weave  is  a  comfort  for  all  sorrow,  it  absorbs  all  other 
interests,  and  has  been  the  saving  of  many  a  woman. 

The  young  Countess  wished  very  earnestly  to  be 
a  good  housewife.  She  knew  of  nothing  better  than 
to  be  a  happy  wife  in  a  happy  home,  and  often  dur- 
ing one  of  the  big  assemblies  she  came  and  sat  down 
among  the  old  ladies. 

"Henrik  wishes  so  much  that  I  should  become 


202  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

a  clever  manager,"  she  used  to  say,  "as  his  mother 
is.  Do  teach  me  how  you  set  up  a  loom!' 

And  the  old  ladies  sighed  a  two-fold  sigh  —  the 
first  over  Count  Henrik,  who  could  imagine  his 
mother  to  be  a  good  housewife;  and  the  second  over 
the  difficulty  of  initiating  any  one  so  young  and 
ignorant  into  such  a  complicated  thing.  You  had 
only  to  mention  skeins  and  heddles,  mounting  sin- 
gle and  double  threading,  and  it  all  spun  round  in 
her  head. 

No  one  who  saw  the  young  Countess  could 
help  wondering  why  she  married  that  stupid  Count 
Henrik. 

He  who  is  stupid  is  to  be  pitied,  whoever  he  is, 
but  he  is  most  to  be  pitied  if  he  lives  in  Varmland. 
There  were  already  many  stories  abroad  about  his 
stupidity,  and  he  was  only  a  few  years  over  twenty. 
The  way  he  entertained  Anna  Stjarnhok  during  a 
sleighing  party  is  a  specimen. 

"You  are  very  beautiful,  Anna,"  he  said. 

"Nonsense,  Henrik!' 

"You  are  the  most  beautiful  girl  in  all  Varm- 
land." 

"  Certainly  I  'm  not." 

"You  are,  in  any  case,  the  loveliest  at  this  sleigh- 
ing party." 

"Oh,  no,  Henrik,  I'm  not." 

"  Well,  you  are  certainly  the  best  looking  in  this 
sledge.  You  can't  deny  that?': 


THE  YOUNG  COUNTESS  203 

No,  she  could  not  deny  that. 

For  Count  Henrik  was  not  handsome.  He  was 
as  ugly  as  he  was  stupid.  They  said  of  him  that  the 
head  on  his  shoulders  had  been  an  inheritance  in 
the  family  for  a  few  hundred  years,  therefore  the 
brain  was  so  worn  out  in  the  present  possessor.  "It 
is  clear  he  has  no  head  of  his  own,"  they  said;  "he 
has  borrowed  his  father's.  He  dare  not  bend  it,  he 
is  afraid  it  might  dropoff.  He  is  already  quite  yellow 
and  wrinkled;  his  head  has  evidently  been  in  use 
both  in  his  father's  and  grandfather's  time,  other- 
wise the  hair  would  not  be  so  thin  and  his  lips  so 
bloodless  and  his  chin  so  sharp." 

He  was  constantly  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of 
jokers  who  tempted  him  into  saying  stupid  things, 
and  then  they  collected  them,  spread  them  abroad, 
and  helped  them  out. 

It  was  a  mercy  he  noticed  nothing.  He  was  dig- 
nified and  pompous  in  all  he  did,  he  never  dreamed 
others  were  different;  respectability  had  taken  bod- 
ily shape  in  him  —  he  moved  languidly,  he  walked 
stiffly,  he  never  turned  his  head  without  his  whole 
body  following  it. 

One  day,  some  years  ago,  he  had  been  at  Mun- 
kerud,  at  the  Judge's.  He  had  ridden  there  in  tall 
hat,  yellow  riding-trousers,  and  shining  boots,  sit- 
ting stiffly  and  proudly  in  his  saddle.  His  arrival 
passed  off  very  well,  but  when  he  rode  away  it  hap- 
pened that  one  of  the  overhanging  branches  in  the 


204  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

•» 

birch  alley  knocked  his  hat  off.  He  descended,  put 
his  hat  on,  and  rode  away  once  more  under  the 
same  branch.  Again  the  hat  was  knocked  off.  This 
was  repeated  four  times. 

The  Judge  came  out  at  last,  and  said,  "  Suppose 
you  try  riding  to  the  side  of  the  branch  next  time ! ' 

And  he  passed  it  successfully  the  fifth  time. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  his  ancient  head,  the  young 
Countess  was  fond  of  him.  Of  course,  when  she  saw 
him  in  Rome,  she  did  not  know  he  was  surrounded 
by  such  a  martyr-like  halo  of  stupidity.  There  had 
been  something  of  a  youthful  glamour  over  him 
then,  and  they  had  been  married  in  such  very  ro- 
mantic circumstances.  You  should  have  heard  her 
relate  how  Count  Henrik  eloped  with  her.  Monks 
and  cardinals  had  been  furious  that  she  should  de- 
sert her  mother's  religion  and  become  a  Protestant. 
All  the  populace  were  in  an  uproar,  her  father's  pal- 
ace was  besieged,  and  Henrik  was  pursued  by  ban- 
dits. Her  mother  and  sister  prayed  her  to  give  up 
the  marriage,  but  her  father  was  wild  to  think  the 
Italian  rabble  should  dare  to  try  and  hinder  him  from 
giving  his  daughter  to  whomever  he  chose.  He  com- 
manded Count  Henrik  to  elope  with  her,  and  as 
it  was  impossible  for  them  to  be  married  at  home 
without  it  being  discovered,  she  had  crept  with  Hen- 
rik along  back  streets  and  all  kinds  of  dark  passages 
to  the  Swedish  Consulate,  and  when  she  had  ab- 
jured her  Catholic  faith  and  become  a  Protestant, 


THE  YOUNG  COUNTESS  205 

they  were  instantly  married  and  came  north  in  a 
swiftly  travelling  coach. "  There  was  no  time  for  any 
banns,  you  see,  it  was  quite  impossible,"  the  young 
Countess  used  to  say;  "and,  of  course,  it  wasn't  as 
nice  being  married  at  the  Consulate  as  in  one  of 
the  beautiful  churches,  but  Henrik  couldn't  possi- 
bly get  me  in  any  other  way.  They  are  all  so  hasty 
there  —  both  papa  and  mamma  and  the  cardinals 
and  monks,  all  of  them.  We  were  obliged  to  keep 
it  secret,  and  if  the  people  had  seen  us  leave  home, 
they  would  certainly  have  killed  us  both — just  to 
save  my  soul.  Henrik's  was,  of  course,  lost  already." 

But  the  young  Countess  was  fond  of  her  husband 
even  when  they  arrived  at  Borg  and  lived  a  quieter 
life.  She  loved  the  splendor  of  the  old  name  he 
bore  and  the  fame  of  his  adventurous  forefathers. 
She  liked  to  see  how  her  presence  softened  him,  and 
to  hear  his  voice  take  another  tone  when  she  talked 
to  him.  And  besides  he  was  fond  of  her  and  spoiled 
her,  and,  after  all,  she  was  married  to  him.  The  young 
Countess  could  not  imagine  a  married  woman  not 
caring  for  her  husband. 

In  a  certain  way  he  answered  her  ideal  of  man- 
liness. He  was  just  and  loved  the  truth.  He  had 
never  broken  his  promised  word.  She  considered 
him  a  true  nobleman. 


On  the  1 8th  of  March,  the  high  sheriff,  Scharling, 


206  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

celebrated  his  birthday,  and  there  were  many  who 
drove  up  Broby  Hill  that  day.  From  east  and  west, 
known  and  unknown,  the  invited  and  uninvited 
guests  came  on  that  occasion  to  the  official  residence. 
All  were  welcome.  There  was  meat  and  drink  for  all, 
and  in  the  dancing-hall  there  was  room  enough  for 
the  dancers  from  seven  parishes. 

The  young  Countess  was  there  too,  as  she  was 
everywhere  where  you  could  expect  dancing  and 
amusement.  But  she  was  not  gay  when  she  arrived, 
it  almost  seemed  as  though  she  had  a  presentiment 
that  it  was  now  her  turn  to  be  involved  in  the  wild 
wave  of  adventure. 

She  sat  and  watched  the  setting  sun  while  driving 
to  the  assembly.  It  sank  from  a  cloudless  sky,  and 
left  no  golden-edged  cloudlets  after  it.  Pale  grey 
twilight  pierced  by  gusts  of  chilly  wind  covered  all 
the  country. 

She  saw  the  strife  of  day  and  night,  and  how 
everything  living  seemed  to  fear,it.  Horses  hurried 
forward  the  last  load  to  gain  their  stables  as  quickly 
as  possible.  The  wood-cutters  hurried  home  from 
the  forest,  the  dairymaids  from  the  farmyard.  Wild 
beasts  howled  in  the  forest  clearing.  Day,  the  beloved 
of  mankind,  was  conquered. 

Colors  faded,  the  light  disappeared.  Cold  and  ug- 
liness was  all  she  saw.  All  she  hoped,  all  she  loved, 
all  she  had  ever  done  seemed  wrapped  in  the  twi- 
light's grey  coverlet.  It  was  an  hour  of  weariness, 


THE  YOUNG  COUNTESS  207 

depression,  and  helplessness  for  her,  as  it  was  for 
all  nature. 

She  remembered  that  her  heart,  which  now  in 
its  joy  lifted  all  life  into  a  shimmer  of  purple  and 
gold,  might  lose  its  strength  to  raise  her  world. 

"Oh,  helplessness, my  own  heart's  helplessness!'3 
she  said  to  herself.  "Crushing  goddess  of  the  twi- 
light, one  day  you  will  conquer  my  soul,  and  I  shall 
see  life  ugly  and  hard,  as  perhaps  it  is,  and  my  hair 
will  whiten  then,  and  my  back  will  bend,  and  my 
mind  will  grow  dull." 

At  that  moment  the  sledge  swung  into  the  court- 
yard, and,  as  she  looked  up,  her  eyes  fell  upon  a 
barred  window  in  a  side  wing  of  the  house  and 
on  a  grim  face  looking  out  of  it. 

The  face  was  that  of  the  Major's  wife  at  Ekeby, 
and  the  young  Countess  knew  that  all  her  pleasure 
was  spoiled  for  that  evening. 

It  is  possible  to  be  joyous  when  you  don't  know 
sorrow  and  only  hear  it  mentioned  as  a  guest  in 
another  country.  It  is  more  difficult  to  keep  the 
heart  gay  when  you  stand  face  to  face  with  dark, 
cruel  trouble. 

The  Countess  knew  that  the  high  sheriff  had 
arrested  the  Major's  wife,  and  that  she  was  to  be 
tried  for  what  had  taken  place  at  Ekeby  on  the 
night  of  the  ball  there;  but  she  had  never  dreamed 
that  she  would  be  kept  in  the  official  residence,  so 
near  them  that  they  could  see  her  room,  so  near 


208  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

that  she  could  hear  the  dance  music  and  the  sound 
of  their  voices.  And  the  thought  of  the  Major's 
wife  took  all  the  Countess's  pleasure  away. 

Of  course  she  danced  both  waltz  and  quadrille, 
minuet  and  anglaise,  but  between  the  dances  she 
crept  to  the  window  and  looked  across  the  court- 
yard to  the  side  wing.  There  was  a  light  in  the 
room  there,  and  she  could  see  Margarita  Samzelius 
pacing  backward  and  forward.  She  seemed  never  to 
rest,  but  to  walk  to  and  fro  unceasingly. 

The  Countess  found  no  pleasure  in  dancing,  she 
was  thinking  all  the  time  of  the  Major's  wife  pacing 
restlessly  up  and  down  her  prison  like  a  caged  beast. 
She  wondered  how  the  others  could  dance;  there 
were  many  there  who  must  be  quite  as  touched  at 
the  knowledge  of  their  old  friend  being  so  near 
them  as  she  was,  but  none  of  them  showed  a  trace 
of  it.  The  Varmlanders  are  a  reserved  people. 

After  each  glance  through  the  window,  her  feet 
grew  heavier  and  the  laugh  caught  in  her  throat. 
Schilling's  wife  saw  her  at  last,  as  she  brushed  the 
vapor  from  the  window-pane  and  tried  to  look  out, 
and  came  and  whispered  to  her,  "Such  a  misfor- 
tune! Oh,  dear,  it  is  such  a  misfortune!' 

"I  feel  it  nearly  impossible  to  dance  to-night," 
whispered  the  Countess. 

"  It  is  against  my  wish  we  have  a  ball  at  all  while 
she  is  imprisoned  here,"  answered  Fru  Scharling. 
"She  has  been  in  Karlstad  since  she  was  arrested, 


THE  YOUNG  COUNTESS  209 

She  is  to  be  tried  very  soon,  and  they  brought  her 
here  to-day.  We  could  not  put  her  into  the  wretched 
jail  at  the  courthouse,  so  she  was  given  the  weav- 
ing-room in  the  side  wing.  She  would  have  been 
in  my  drawing-room,  Countess,  if  all  these  people 
had  n't  come  to-day.  You  know  her  so  slightly,  but 
she  has  been  like  a  mother  and  queen  to  us  all. 
What  will  she  think  of  us  dancing  here  while  she 
is  in  such  trouble?  It  is  a  mercy  that  only  a  few 
know  she  is  here/' 

"She  ought  never  to  have  been  arrested,"  said 
the  Countess,  sternly. 

"  That  is  true,  but  there  was  no  other  way,  unless 
worse  were  to  happen.  There  is  no  one  who  would 
deny  her  right  to  setting  her  own  strawstacks  on 
fire  and  turning  the  cavaliers  out  of  Ekeby,  but 
the  Major  is  hunting  the  country  for  her.  God  alone 
knows  what  he  might  have  done  if  she  had  n't  been 
arrested!  Scharling  has  had  much  unpleasantness 
for  arresting  her.  Even  in  Karlstad  they  were  angry 
that  he  had  not  looked  through  his  fingers  at  the 
doings  at  Ekeby,  but  he  did  what  he  thought  was 
best." 

"But  will  she  be  condemned  now?"  asked  the 
Countess. 

"Oh,  no,Countess,  she  won't.The  Lady  of  Ekeby 
will  never  be  found  guilty,  but  I  am  afraid  it  will 
all  be  too  much  for  her.  She  will  go  mad.  You  can 
imagine  such  a  proud  woman  cannot  bear  being 


2io  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

treated  like  a  criminal.  I  think  it  would  have  been 
wisest  to  have  let  her  alone;  she  would  have  escaped 
him  in  her  own  way." 

"  Let  her  out/'  said  the  Countess. 

"That  can  be  done  by  others  rather  than  the 
sheriffand  his  wife,"  whispered  Fru  Scharling.  "We 
must  guard  her — especially  to-night,  when  so  many 
of  her  friends  are  here.  Two  men  keep  watch  at  her 
door,  and  it  is  barred  so  that  no  one  can  get  at  her. 
But  if  some  one  got  her  away,  both  Scharling  and 
I  should  be  so  glad." 

"Could  I  see  her?"  asked  the  young  Countess. 

Fru  Scharling  caught  her  hand  eagerly  and  led 
her  out.  They  threw  shawls  over  their  shoulders, 
and  then  crossed  the  courtyard. 

"It  is  very  possible  she  won't  speak  to  us,"  said 
the  sheriff's  wife ;  "  but  she  will  see,  at  least,  that  we 
have  not  forgotten  her." 

They  entered  the  first  room  in  the  wing,  where 
the  two  men  sat  at  the  barred  doors,  and  they  were 
allowed  entrance  into  the  further  room.  It  was  a 
large  chamber  full  of  looms  and  other  work  instru- 
ments. It  was  commonly  used  as  a  weaving-shed, 
but  it  had  a  barred  window  and  a  strong  lock  on 
the  door,  and  could,  in  case  of  necessity,  be  used 
as  a  jail. 

The  Major's  wife  continued  her  tramp  up  and 
down  without  paying  any  attention  to  them. 

She  was  on  a  long  journey.  She  remembered  noth- 


THE  YOUNG  COUNTESS  211 

ing  but  that  she  was  on  her  way  to  her  mother, 

^^  •  • 

who  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  Alfdal  forests.  She 
had  no  time  to  rest;  she  must  cross  the  hundred 
and  forty  miles  that  separated  them ;  she  must  go 
on,  and  quickly,  for  her  mother  was  over  ninety 
years  old,  and  she  would  be  dead  soon.  She  had 
measured  out  the  floor  into  ells,  and  then  counted 
up  the  ells  into  fathoms,  and  the  fathoms  into  half- 
miles  and  miles. 

The  way  seems  long  and  weary  to  her,  and  yet 
she  dare  not  rest.  She  wades  through  deep  snow- 
drifts; she  hears  the  murmur  of  the  everlasting  for- 
ests as  she  walks  onward.  She  takes  her  mid-day 
and  evening  meal,  and  rests  in  the  huts  of  the  Finns 
and  the  charcoal-burner's  shanty.  Sometimes,  where 
there  is  no  human  habitation  for  many,  many  miles, 
she  is  obliged  to  gather  branches  and  make  a  bed 
for  herself  at  the  root  of  an  overturned  pine. 

Andat  last  she  reaches  her  destination — the  long 
miles  are  all  behind  her,  the  forest  opens  out,  and  a 
red  house  stands  in  a  snow-covered  yard.  The  Klar- 
alfven  rushes  along  in  a  series  of  small  rapids,  and 
by  the  well-remembered  thunder  of  its  waters  she 
realizes  she  is  at  home. 

And  her  mother,  who  sees  her  coming  like  a  beg- 
gar as  she  desired,  comes  to  meet  her. 

When  the  Major's  wife  reached  this  point,  she 
always  looked  up, glanced  about  her,  saw  the  barred 
door,  and  remembered  where  she  was. 


212  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

Then  she  wondered  if  she  was  not  going  mad, 
and  sat  down  to  rest  and  think.  But  after  a  time  she 
was  again  on  the  march,  counting  the  ells  and  fath- 
oms into  miles,  taking  a  short  rest  at  the  huts  along 
the  way,  and  sleeping  neither  day  nor  night  till  she 
had  gone  over  the  hundred  and  forty  miles  again. 

During  the  time  of  her  imprisonment  she  had 
hardly  ever  slept,  and  the  two  women  who  had 
come  to  see  her  gazed  at  her  anxiously.  The  young 
Countess  ever  afterwards  remembered  her  as  she 
looked  then.  She  often  dreamed  of  her,  and  woke 
with  tears  in  her  eyes  and  a  cry  on  her  lips. 

The  old  lady  was  so  broken  down;  her  hair  was 
so  thin,  and  loose  ends  streamed  from  the  thin  plait. 
Her  face  looked  weak  and  hollow,  her  clothes  were 
disordered  and  ragged,  but  she  had  still  enough  of 
the  old  imperiousness  of  the  powerful  Lady  Boun- 
tiful about  her  so  that  she  did  not  only  inspire  pity, 
but  also  respect. 

But  the  young  Countess  chiefly  remembered  her 
eyes — sunken,  retrospective,  the  light  of  reason  in 
them  not  yet  destroyed,  but  ready  to  die  out — with 
a  fierce  gleam  in  their  depths,  so  that  you  feared 
she  might  attack  you  with  biting  teeth  and  with 
clawing  hands. 

They  had  stood  watching  her  for  some  time,  when 
the  Major's  wife  paused  before  the  young  Count- 
ess and  looked  at  her  severely.  The  Countess  took 
a  step  backward,  and  clutched  Fru  Scharling's  arm. 


THE  YOUNG  COUNTESS  213 

The  old  woman's  face  suddenly  awoke  to  life 
and  gained  expression,  and  her  eyes  looked  out  upon 
the  world  with  understanding.  "Oh,  no!  oh,  no! ' 
she  said,  and  smiled ;  "  it  is  n't  as  bad  as  all  that,  my 
young  lady." 

She  directed  them  to  sit  down,  and  seated  her- 
self with  the  air  of  stateliness  belonging  to  the  old 
days — to  the  great  assemblies  at  Ekeby  and  the 
state  balls  at  the  Governor's  residence  at  Karlstad. 
They  forgot  the  rags  and  the  prison,  and  saw  again 
the  proudest  and  richest  woman  in  Varmland. 

"My  dear  Countess,"  she  asked,  "what  could 
have  induced  you  to  leave  the  dancing  and  visit  a 
lonely  old  womanlike  me?  You  must  be  very  good." 

Countess  Elizabeth  could  not  answer.  Her  voice 
shook  too  much,  and  Fru  Scharling  answered  for 
her  that  she  could  not  dance  while  thinking  of  the 
Major's  wife. 

"Dear  Fru  Scharling,"  she  said,  "has  it  gone  so 
far  with  me  that  I  spoil  the  young  people's  plea- 
sure? You  must  not  cry  for  my  sake,  my  dear  little 
Countess,"shecontinued."  I  'ma  wicked  old  woman 
who  deserve  my  fate.  You  don't  think  it  right  to 
strike  your  mother?' 

"No,  but—" 

The  Major's  wife  interrupted  her,  smoothing  the 
fair  curly  hair  over  her  forehead. "  Child,  child,"  she 
said,  "how  could  you  marry  that  stupid  Henrik 
Dohna?" 


2i4  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

"But  I  love  him!" 

"I  see  how  it  is,  I  see  how  it  is — a  good  child 
and  nothing  more,  crying  with  those  that  weep,  and 
laughing  with  those  that  rejoice,  and  obliged  to  say 
c  Yes'  to  the  first  man  who  says  c  I  love  you/  Yes, 
yes.  Now  go  in  and  dance,  my  dear  Countess,  dance 
and  be  gay.  There  is  no  ill  in  you." 

"But  I  want  to  do  something  for  you!1 

"  Child,"  she  answered,  with  dignity,"  there  lived 
an  old  woman  at  Ekeby,  who  held  the  winds  of 
heaven  in  her  hand.  Now  she  is  imprisoned  and  the 
winds  are  free.  Is  it  wonderful  that  a  great  storm 
rages  through  the  land? 

"  I  am  old,  and  I  Ve  seen  it  before.  I  know  it,  I 
know  that  God's  fearful  storm  is  upon  us.  Some- 
times'  it  sweeps  over  the  great  nations,  sometimes 
over  small  forgotten  communities.  God's  storm  for- 
gets no  one:  it  overwhelms  the  great  and  the  small. 
It  is  wonderful  to  see  its  approach. 

"  Oh,  blessed  storm  of  the  Lord,  blow  over  the 
earth !  Voices  in  the  air,  voices  in  the  water,  sound 
and  terrify !  Make  God's  storm  thunder,  and  make 
it  fearful.  May  its  stormy  gusts  sweep  over  the  earth, 
beating  against  shaking  walls,  breaking  the  rusty 
locks  and  the  houses  that  are  falling  to  ruin. 

"Terror  shall  spread  over  the  country.  The  little 
birds'  nests  shall  fall  from  their  hold  in  the  pine 
trees,  and  the  hawk's  nest  shall  fall  from  the  fir-top 
with  a  great  noise,  and  even  into  the  owl's  nest  on 


THE  YOUNG  COUNTESS  215 

the  mountain  ledge  shall  the  wind  hiss  with  its  dra- 
gon tongues. 

"We  thought  all  was  well  here  among  us,  but  it 
was  not.  God's  storm  was  needed.  I  understand,  and 
I  do  not  complain.  I  only  wish  to  go  at  once  to  my 
mother." 

She  seemed  to  sink  together  suddenly. 

"Go  now,  young  woman,"  she  commanded.  "  I 
have  no  more  time;  I  must  go  at  once.  Go  now,  and 
beware  of  those  who  ride  on  the  storm  clouds ! ' 

And  she  returned  to  her  restless  walk.  Her  fea- 
tures lost  their  firmness,  her  eyes  grew  vacant.  The 
Countess  and  Fru  Scharling  left  her. 

As  soon  as  they  were  again  among  the  dancers, 
the  Countess  went  straight  to  Gosta  Berling. 

"I  bring  you  a  greeting  from  the  Major's  wife, 
Herr  Berling,"  she  said.  "She  expects  you  to  help 
her  out  of  prison." 

"Then  she  must  continue  to  expect  it,  Count- 


ess/ 


cc 


Oh,  help  her,  Herr  Berling!' 

Gosta  gazed  sternly  before  him."  No,"  he  replied ; 
"why  should  I  help  her?  What  have  I  to  thank  her 
for?  All  she  has  done  for  me  has  been  my  ruin." 

"But,  Herr  Berling—" 

"If  she  had  not  existed,"  he  said  passionately, 
"I  should  now  be  sleeping  in  the  everlasting  for- 
est. Must  I  feel  it  necessary  to  risk  my  life  for  her, 
because  she  made  me  an  Ekeby  cavalier?  Do  you 


216  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

think,  Countess,  there  is  any  renown  to  be  gained 
in  that  capacity?* 

She  turned  from  him  without  answering,  she  was 
so  angry,  and%went  to  her  place,  thinking  bitterly 
of  the  cavaliers.  They  are  all  there  to-night  with 
their  horns  and  violins,  and  they  intend  to  let  the 
bows  fly  over  the  strings  till  they  wear  out,  and 
without  giving  a  thought  to  the  fact  that  the  gay 
music  must  penetrate  to  the  prisoner's  miserable 
room.  They  have  come  there  to  dance  till  their 
shoes  go  to  dust,  and  they  never  think  that  their 
old  benefactress  can  see  their  shadows  swing  by  on 
the  dimmed  window-panes. 

Oh,  how  ugly  and  grey  the  world  had  become! 
What  a  shadow  trouble  and  harshness  were  casting 
over  her  soul! 

A  little  later,  Gosta  Berling  came  and  asked  her 
to  dance. 

She  refused  shortly. 

"The  young  Countess  will  not  dance  with  me?' 
he  asked,  flushing  hotly. 

"  Neither  with  you  nor  any  of  the  Ekeby  cava- 
liers," she  answered. 

"We  are  then  not  considered  worthy  of  the 
honor?" 

"  It  is  no  honor,  Herr  Berling ;  but  I  find  no  plea- 
sure in  dancing  with  those  who  have  forgotten  all 
the  precepts  of  gratitude." 

Gosta  had  already  swung  round  on  his  heel. 


THE  YOUNG  COUNTESS  217 

The  scene  had  been  witnessed  by  many,  and 
every  one  thought  the  Countess  right.  The  ingrati- 
tude and  heartlessness  of  the  cavaliers  had  awak- 
ened universal  disapproval. 

But  in  those  days  Gosta  Berling  was  more  dan- 
gerous to  cross  than  a  wild  beast  of  the  forest.  Ever 
since  he  came  home  from  bear-hunting  and  found 
Marienne  had  left  Ekeby,  his  heart  was  like  an  open 
sore.  He  had  an  aching  desire  to  injure  some  one  — 
any  one — to  spread  sorrow  and  misery  around  him. 

"If  she  desires  it,  she  shall  have  it,"  he  said  to 
himself;  "but  she  must  not  spare  her  own  skin. 
The  Countess  likes  elopements,  she  shall  have  more 
than  she  likes  of  them."  He  had  nothing  against 
an  adventure.  For  eight  days  he  had  sorrowed  for  a 
woman's  sake.  It  was  enough.  He  called  up  Beeren- 
creutz,  the  Colonel,  and  Kristian  Bergh,  the  Strong 
Captain,  and  trusty  Cousin  Kristoffer,  who  never 
hesitated  at  a  mad  adventure,  and  held  counsel  with 
them  how  best  to  revenge  the  damaged  honor  of  the 
cavaliers. 


Soon  after  this  the  ball  came  to  an  end.  A  long  line 
of  sledges  drove  up  to  the  door.  The  gentlemen  put 
on  their  fur  coats,  the  ladies  sought  their  wraps  in 
the  deepest  confusion  of  the  dressing-room. 

The  young  Countess  hastened  to  leave  that  hate- 
ful ball,  and  was  ready  first.  She  stood  in  the  mid- 


2i 8  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

die  of  the  room,  smiling  at  the  excitement  round 
her,  when  the  door  was  thrown  open  and  Gosta 
Berling  crossed  the  threshold. 

No  man  had  the  right  to  enter  that  room.  The 
old  ladies  had  their  heads  uncovered  after  putting 
away  their  splendid  caps,  and  the  younger  ladies 
had  tucked  up  their  skirts  so  that  their  frills  might 
not  get  crushed  on  the  homeward  drive. 

But  without  paying  attention  to  arresting  cries, 
Gosta  Berling  strode  forward  to  the  Countess,  lifted 
her  in  his  arms,  and  rushed  out  of  the  room  into 
the  hall  and  out  upon  the  doorsteps  with  her. 

The  cries  of  the  astonished  women  did  not  stop 
him,  and  when  they  reached  the  hall  door,  they  saw 
him  throw  himself  into  a  sledge  with  the  Countess 
still  in  his  arms. 

They  heard  the  driver  crack  his  whip  and  saw  the 
horse  spring  forward.  They  recognized  the  driver 
—  it  was  Beerencreutz,  the  horse  was  Don  Juan 
— and  with  fear  in  their  hearts  for  the  fate  of  the 
Countess,  they  called  to  their  husbands. 

The  men  lost  no  time  in  questions,  but  dashed 
to  the  sledges,  and  with  the  Count  at  their  head, 
they  started  after  the  runaways. 

Meanwhile  Gosta  Berling  sat  in  the  sledge, hold- 
ing the  young  Countess  securely.  He  had  forgotten 
all  his  sorrows,  and,  wild  with  the  maddening  spirit 
of  adventure,  he  sang  a  song  of  love  and  roses. 

He  held  her  pressed  closely  to  him,  but  she  made 


THE  YOUNG  COUNTESS  219 

no  attempt  to  escape.  Her  face  lay,  white  and  stony, 
on  his  breast. 

What  shall  a  man  do  when  a  pale,  helpless  face 
lies  so  near  him,  when  he  sees  the  fair  hair  swept 
aside,  which  usually  shadows  the  shining  brow,  and 
the  eyelids  lie  heavily  over  the  gleam  of  smiling 
grey  eyes?  What  shall  a  man  do  when  red  lips 
whiten  under  the  gaze  of  his  eyes? 

Why,  kiss  them,  of  course — kiss  the  pale  lips, 
the  closed  eyes,  and  white  brows. 

But  at  that  the  young  Countess  awoke.  She  threw 
herself  aside.  She  was  like  a  steel  wand,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  exert  all  his  strength  to  prevent  her 
from  throwing  herself  out,  till  he  forced  her  at  last, 
conquered  and  trembling,  into  a  corner  of  the 
sledge. 

"See,"  he  said,  quite  calmly  to  Beerencreutz, 
"the  Countess  is  the  third  that  Don  Juan  and  I 
have  carried  away  this  winter;  but  the  other  two 
hung  round  my  neck  with  kisses,  and  she  will 
neither  be  kissed  by  me  nor  dance  with  me.  Can 
you  understand  these  women,  Beerencreutz?' 

When  Gosta  had  left  the  courtyard,  while  the 
women  were  screaming  and  the  men  cursing,  when 
the  sleigh-bells  rang,  and  the  whips  cracked,  and 
all  was  shouting  and  confusion,  the  men  who  were 
guarding  the  Major's  wife  grew  frightened. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  they  thought.  "Why  do 
they  shout  so?' 


220  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

Suddenly  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  a  voice 
cried  to  them,  "She  is  gone.  He  has  carried  her 
off!" 

Out  they  flew,  running  like  madmen,  without 
finding  out  if  it  was  the  Major's  wife  or  some  one 
else  who  had  been  carried  away.  They  had  good  luck 
too,  and  managed  to  climb  into  a  passing  sledge, 
and  it  was  a  long  time  before  they  learned  whom 
they  were  trying  to  overtake. 

ButBergh  and  Cousin  KristofFer  marched  calmly 
to  the  door  of  the  improvised  jail,  broke  the  lock, 
and  opened  it  for  the  Major's  wife. 

"The  Lady  of  Ekeby  is  free,"  they  said. 

She  came  out.  They  stood  as  straight  as  nine- 
pins on  each  side  of  the  door,  but  did  not  meet  her 
eyes. 

"  Your  horse  and  sledge  await  you  downstairs." 

She  went  down,  seated  herself,  and  drove  away. 
No  one  followed  her,  and  no  one  knew  whither  she 
went. 

Down  Broby  Hill,  toward  the  ice-bound  Lofven, 
Don  Juan  rushed.  The  proud  racer  flew  over  the 
snow;  the  frosty  air  whistled  in  the  faces  of  the 
drivers;  the  sleigh-bells  rang  out;  the  moon  and 
stars  glittered,  and  the  snow  lay  blue  and  white, 
shining  with  its  own  splendor. 

Gosta  felt  his  poetic  fancy  awakened.  "Beeren- 
creutz,"  he  cried,  "this  is  life.  As  Don  Juan  carries 
away  the  young  women,  so  Time  carries  away  the 


THE  YOUNG  COUNTESS  221 

individual.  You  are  Necessity  steering  the  course. 
I  am  Desire  which  tames  the  will,  and  so  she  is  car- 
ried helpless,  ever  deeper  and  deeper  downward." 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,"  growled  Beerencreutz ; 
"they  are  after  us," — and  a  whistling  cut  of  the 
whip  urged  Don  Juan  to  still  greater  speed. 

"There  are  the  wolves,  here  is  the  booty,"  cried 
Gosta.  "Don  Juan,  my  boy,  imagine  yourself  a 
young  elk.  Break  your  way  through  the  ensnaring 
bushes,  wade  through  the  marsh.  Leap  from  the 
crest  of  the  hill  range  into  the  clear  lake,  swim  over 
with  proudly  lifted  head,  and  vanish,  vanish  into 
the  dense  darkness  of  the  firwood.  Run,  Don  Juan, 
run  like  a  young  elk!" 

Joy  filled  his  wild  heart  at  the  speed.  The  shouts 
of  his  pursuers  were  songs  of  exultation.  Joy  filled 
his  wild  heart  when  he  felt  the  Countess  shake  with 
fear,  and  heard  her  teeth  chattering. 

Suddenly  he  loosened  the  iron  grasp  in  which  he 
had  held  her.  He  stood  upright  in  the  sledge,  and 
swung  his  cap. 

"I  am  Gosta  Berling,"  he  shouted,  "the  lord 
of  ten  thousand  kisses  and  thirteen  thousand  love- 
letters.  Hurrah  for  Gosta  Berling!  Catch  him  who 
can!" 

And  the  next  moment  he  was  whispering  to  the 
Countess,  "Isn't  the  speed  fine?  Isn't  our  drive 
royal?  Beyond  Lofven  lies  Vanern,  beyond  Vanern 
lies  the  sea — endless  stretches  of  clear,  blue-black 


222  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

ice,  and  beyond  it  all  a  shining  world.  Rolling  thun- 
der in  the  freezing  ice,  shrill  shouts  behind  us, 
shooting  stars  in  the  heavens,  and  ringing  sleigh- 
bells  before  us!  Forward — forever  forward !  Now, 
do  you  wish  to  make  trial  of  such  a  journey,  Count- 
ess?'3 

He  had  freed  her,  and  she  pushed  him  aside  vio- 
lently. 

The  next  moment  found  him  on  his  knees  at  her 
feet. 

"  I  am  a  wretch,  a  miserable  wretch.  You  should 
not  have  angered  me.  You  stood  there  so  proud 
and  pure,  and  never  dreamed  that  a  cavalier's  fist 
could  reach  you.  You  are  loved  by  heaven  and  earth ; 
you  should  not  increase  the  burden  of  those  whom 
heaven  and  earth  despise." 

He  snatched  her  hands,  and  pressed  them  to  his 
face. 

"  If  you  but  knew,"  he  pleaded,  "what  it  meant 
to  know  yourself  an  outcast !  You  don't  care  what 
you  do — you  never  care." 

Just  then  he  noticed  that  her  hands  were  uncov- 
ered. He  drew  a  pair  of  large  fur  gloves  out  of  his 
pockets,  and  put  them  on  for  her. 

And  with  that  he  became  quite  calm.  He  seated 
himself  in  the  sledge  as  far  as  possible  from  the 
Countess. 

"It  isn't  worth  while  being  frightened,  Count- 
ess," he  said.  "Don't  you  see  where  we  are  driv- 


THE  YOUNG  COUNTESS  223 

ing  to?  You  can  surely  understand  that  we  never 
intended  to  do  you  any  harm!' 

She  had  been  nearly  out  of  her  senses  with  fear, 
and  only  noticed  now  that  they  had  crossed  the 
river,  and  Don  Juan  was  drawing  them  up  the  steep 
hill  to  Borg. 

They  pulled  up  before  the  steps,  and  allowed 
the  Countess  to  alight  at  her  own  door;  but  as  soon 
as  she  was  surrounded  by  protecting  servants,  she 
regained  her  courage  and  presence  of  mind. 

"Take  charge  of  the  horse/' she  commanded  the 
coachman.  "These  gentlemen  who  have  driven  me 
home  will  surely  come  in  for  a  few  moments.  The 
Count  will  be  here  directly." 

"As  the  Countess  desires,"  replied  Gosta,  and 
stepped  immediately  out  of  the  sledge,  and  Beeren- 
creutz, too,  threw  the  reins  asidewithout  a  moment's 
hesitation.  But  the  young  Countess  preceded  them, 
and  showed  them,  with  hardly  concealed  exultation, 
into  the  salon. 

She  had  probably  expected  they  would  hesitate 
to  accept  her  proposal  to  await  her  husband's  return. 
Of  course,  they  could  not  know  what  a  stern  and 
just  man  he  was.  They  did  not  seem  to  fear  the 
judgment  he  would  mete  out  to  them  for  having 
so  violently  laid  hold  of  her  and  compelled  her  to 
take  that  drive.  She  wished  to  hear  him  forbid  them 
ever  to  set  foot  in  her  house  again. 

She  wanted  to  see  him  call  in  the  servants  and 


224  COST  A  BERLING'S  SAGA 

point  out  the  cavaliers  as  men  who  were  never  again 
to  be  admitted  within  the  doors  of  Borg.  She  wished 
to  hear  him  express  his  scorn,  not  only  for  the  way 
they  had  treated  her,  but  also  for  their  ingratitude 
toward  the  Major's  wife,  their  benefactress. 

Yes,  he,  who  to  her  was  all  tenderness  and  con- 
sideration, would  rise  in  just  wrath  against  her  cap- 
tors. Love  would  lend  fire  to  his  words.  He  who 
protected  and  cared  for  her  as  for  a  being  of  another 
world,  he  would  never  allow  rough  men  to  descend 
upon  her  like  hawks  upon  a  sparrow.  The  little 
woman  glowed  from  head  to  foot  with  the  desire  for 
revenge.  Her  husband  would  help  her  in  her  help- 
lessness and  drive  away  all  the  dark  shadows. 

But  Beerencreutz,  the  Colonel,  with  the  thick 
white  moustache,  strode  unconcernedly  into  the 
dining-room  and  walked  up  to  the  fire,  which  was 
always  burning  there  when  the  Countess  was  ex- 
pected home  from  a  ball. 

Gosta  remained  in  the  darkness  near  the  door, 
and  silently  watched  the  Countess  while  the  ser- 
vants relieved  her  of  her  outer  garments.  As  he  sat 
looking  at  her,  he  rejoiced  as  he  had  not  done  for 
many  years.  It  was  so  clear  to  him — as  certain  as  if 
it  had  been  revealed  to  him — that  within  her  dwelt 
the  most  beautiful  soul.  It  lay  bound  and  sleeping 
yet,  but  it  would  awaken.  He  rejoiced  greatly  at 
having  discovered  all  the  purity  and  the  goodness 
and  the  innocence  that  lay  hidden  within  her.  He 


THE  YOUNG  COUNTESS  225 

could  almost  have  laughed  at  her  standing  there 
looking  so  angry,  with  burning  cheeks  and  frown- 
ing eyebrows. 

"You  don't  know  how  good  and  sweet  you  are," 
he  thought.  That  side  of  her  character  which  in- 
clined toward  the  world  of  the  senses  would  never 
do  her  real  self  justice.  But  from  that  hour,  Gosta 
Berling  was  compelled  to  be  her  servant,  as  one 
serves  all  that  is  beautiful  and  godly.  Yes,  it  was  no 
good  regretting  that  he  had  treated  her  so  roughly. 
If  she  had  not  been  so  frightened,  if  she  had  not 
pushed  him  aside  so  wildly,  if  he  had  not  felt  that 
all  her  being  was  shuddering  at  his  coarseness,  he 
would  never  have  known,  never  have  guessed,  what 
a  noble  and  sensitive  spirit  dwelt  within  her. 

He  never  had  believed  it  before.  She  had  only 
cared  for  dancingand  amusement,  and  she  had  found 
it  possible  to  marry  that  stupid  Count  Henrik. 

Yes,  now  he  would  be  her  slave  till  death  — 
"dog  and  slave,"  as  Captain  Kristian  used  to  say, 
"and  nothing  more." 

Gosta  Berling  sat  near  the  door  with  folded  hands, 
and  held  a  kind  of  adoration  service.  Since  the  day 
he  had  felt  the  fire  of  inspiration  touch  him,  he 
had  never  experienced  such  blessedness  in  his  soul. 
Though  Count  Henrik  came  into  the  room  with 
a  crowd  of  men,  all  swearing  and  lamenting  over 
the  cavaliers'  many  pranks,  it  did  not  distract  him. 
He  let  Beerencreutz  meet  the  storm,  and  he,  the 


226  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

man  of  many  adventures,  stood  calmly  at  the  fire- 
place with  his  foot  on  the  bars  and  his  elbow  on  his 
knee,  and  gazed  at  the  storming  crowd. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  the  little  Count 
screamed. 

"It  means,"  Beerencreutz  replied,  "that  as  long 
as  there  remains  womankind  on  earth,  there  will 
always  be  fools  to  dance  to  their  piping!' 

The  young  Count  grew  very  red  in  the  face. 

"I  ask  what  this  means!*'  he  repeated. 

"  I  also  ask,"  mocked  Beerencreutz, "  I  ask  what 
it  means  when  Henrik  Dohna's  Countess  refuses 
to  dance  with  Gosta  Berling!' 

The  Count  turned  questioningly  to  his  wife. 

"I  could  not,  Henrik,"  she  cried;  "  I  could  not 
dance  with  him  or  any  of  them.  I  thought  of  the 
Major's  wife  whom  they  were  allowing  to  die  in 
prison." 

The  little  Count  straightened  his  stiff  body  and 
stretched  out  his  old-fashioned  head. 

"We  cavaliers,"  continued  Beerencreutz,  "allow 
no  one  to  insult  us.  She  that  will  not  dance  with  us 
must  drive  with  us.  The  Countess  has  received  no 
harm,  and  that  can  be  the  end  of  the  matter." 

"No,"  said  the  Count,  "that  can't  end  the  mat- 
ter. I  am  answerable  for  my  wife's  doings.  I  desire 
to  know  why  Gosta  Berling  did  not  apply  to  me 
when  my  wife  insulted  him/ 

Beerencreutz  smiled. 


THE  YOUNG  COUNTESS  227 

"I  desire  to  know,"  repeated  the  Count. 

"  One  does  not  ask  leave  of  the  fox  to  take  his 
skin,"  said  Beerencreutz. 

The  Count  laid  his  hand  on  his  narrow  chest. 

"  I  have  the  reputation  of  being  a  just  man,"  he 
cried.  "I  judge  my  servants,  why  cannot  I  judge 
my  wife?  You  cavaliers  have  no  right  to  judge  her. 
The  punishment  you  meted  out  to  her,  I  put  aside. 
It  has  never  taken  place,  gentlemen,  it  has  never 
taken  place." 

Count  Henrik  shrieked  out  the  words  in  the  high- 
est falsetto.  Beerencreutz  sent  a  rapid  glance  over 
the  company.  There  was  not  one  of  them  —  Sintram 
and  Daniel  Bendixand  Dahlberg,  and  whoever  they 
all  were  who  had  followed  them  in — who  was  not 
grinning  at  the  way  he  was  outwitting  the  stupid 
young  Count. 

The  Countess  did  not  understand  at  first.  What 
was  it  that  had  never  taken  place?  Her  fear,  the 
hard  grip  of  the  cavaliers*  hands  upon  her,  the  wild 
songs,  the  wild  words  and  kisses,  were  they  all  to 
be  brushed  aside?  Was  there  nothing  in  this  even- 
ing's events  that  was  not  influenced  by  the  grey 
goddess  of  twilight? 

"But,  Henrik— " 

"Silence!"  he  said,  straightening  himself  to  pass 
sentence  upon  her!  "Woe  to  you,  a  woman,  who 
have  wished  to  be  a  judge  over  men.  Woe  to  you, 
my  wife,  who  have  dared  to  insult  a  man  whose  hand 


228  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

I  press  in  friendship !  What  affair  is  it  of  yours  that 
the  cavaliers  put  the  Major's  wife  in  prison?  Have 
they  not  the  right?  You  can  never  know  how  a  man 
is  angered  to  the  depths  of  his  soul  when  he  hears 
of  a  woman's  infidelity.  Are  you  also  going  to  tread 
the  downward  path,  that  you  take  her  part?' 

"But,  Henrik—  " 

She  cried  out  like  a  child,  and  stretched  out  her 
arms  as  if  to  ward  off  the  cruel  words.  Probably  she 
had  never  heard  such  anger  directed  against  herself. 
She  was  so  helpless  among  all  those  hard  men ;  and 
now  her  only  defender  turned  against  her.  Her 
heart  would  never  again  have  strength  to  illumine 
the  world. 

"  But,  Henrik,  it  is  you  who  should  defend  me ! ' 

Gosta  Berling  was  attentive  now,  when  it  was  too 
late.  He  did  n't  in  the  least  know  what  to  do.  He 
wished  her  well,  but  he  dared  not  thrust  himself 
between  husband  and  wife. 

Where  is  Gosta  Berling?"  asked  the  Count. 
Here,"  replied  Gosta,  and  he  made  a  well-meant 
attempt  to  laugh  the  matter  aside ;  "  the  Count  was 
probably  on  the  point  of  making  a  speech,  and  I  fell 
asleep.  What  do  you  say  to  our  going  home  now 
and  leaving  you  to  get  to  bed?' 

"  Gosta  Berling,  as  my  wife  refused  to  dance  with 
you,  I  command  her  to  beg  your  pardon  and  to 
kiss  your  hand." 

"My  dear  Count  Henrik,"  said  Gosta,  smilingly, 


cc 

(C 


THE  YOUNG  COUNTESS  229 

"  my  hand  is  n't  suitable  for  any  young  lady  to  kiss. 
Yesterday  it  was  red  from  the  blood  of  an  elk;  to- 
night it  was  black  with  soot  after  a  fight  with  a  coal- 
heaver.  The  Count  has  passed  a  noble  and  high- 
minded  sentence — that  is  sufficient.  Come,  Beeren- 
creutz." 

The  Count  placed  himself  in  his  way. 

"  Stay,"  he  said, "  my  wife  must  obey.  I  desire  her 
to  know  what  it  is  to  act  on  her  own  responsibility." 

Gosta  looked  helpless.  The  Countess  was  quite 
pale,  but  she  did  not  move. 

"Go!"  said  the  Count. 

"Henrik— I  can't." 

"You  can,"  he  answered,  sternly;  "you  can,  but 
I  know  what  you  want.  You  want  to  force  me  to 
fight  the  man,  because  you  are  capricious  and  don't 
like  him.  Well,  if  you  won't  give  him  satisfaction,  I 
must.  You  women  are  always  delighted  when  men 
are  killed  for  your  sake.  You  are  in  fault,  but  you 
will  not  make  amends  for  it.  I  must  therefore  do  it. 
I  am  obliged  to  fight  a  duel,  my  Countess,  and  in 
a  few  hours  I  shall  be  a  bloody  corpse." 

She  gave  him  a  long  look,  and  she  saw  him  as 
he  was,  stupid,  cowardly,  inflated  with  pride  and 
vanity,  the  most  pitiable  of  men. 

"Calm  yourself,"  she  said,  and  she  was  now  cold 
as  ice;  "  I  will  do  it." 

But  now  Gosta  Berling  seemed  out  of  his  mind. 

"Countess,  you  shall  not,  never,  never!  You  are 


230  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

only  a  child,  a  weak,  innocent  child,  and  you — to 
kiss  my  hand!  You  have  such  a  white  and  pure 
soul.  I  will  never  again  come  near  you,  never  again ! 
I  bring  death  and  desolation  and  destruction  over 
all  the  good  and  innocent.  You  shall  not  touch  me ! 
I  shrink  from  you  as  fire  from  water,  you  shall  not 
touch  me!' 

He  put  his  hands  behind  his  back. 

"It  is  nothing  to  me  now,  Herr  Berling.  It  is 
nothing  at  all  now.  I  beg  your  pardon,  and  I  beg 
you  to  let  me  kiss  your  hand!' 

Gosta  still  kept  his  hands  behind  his  back.  He 
considered  the  situation  and  moved  nearer  the  door. 

"  If  you  will  not  receive  the  satisfaction  my  wife  of- 
fers you,  I  must  fight  you,  Gosta  Berling,  and  I  must 
also  deal  to  her  another  and  severer  punishment." 

The  Countess  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "He  is 
crazy  with  fear,"  she  whispered;  "let  me  do  as  he 
commands.  What  does  it  matter  if  I  am  humiliated  ? 
It  is  what  you  wished  from  the  first." 

"Did  I  wish  it?  Do  you  believe  I  wished  that? 
Well,  if  I  have  no  hands  to  kiss,  you  must  then 
believe  I  never  meant  it,"  he  cried. 

He  sprang  to  the  fire  and  plunged  his  hands  in. 
The  flames  wrapped  round  them,  the  skin  crinkled, 
the  nails  cracked,  but  Beerencreutz  caught  him  by 
the  back  of  the  neck  at  the  same  moment  and  flung 
him  out  upon  the  floor.  He  stumbled  against  a  chair 
and  remained  sitting.  He  was  almost  ashamed  now 


THE  YOUNG  COUNTESS  231 

of  doing  such  a  thing.  Would  she  think  he  had  done 
it  for  effect?  To  do  it  before  a  roomful  of  people 
must  seem  as  if  it  were  done  for  effect.  There  had  n't 
been  the  least  danger  in  it. 

Before  he  could  think  of  rising,  the  Countess 
was  on  her  knees  beside  him.  She  caught  hold  of 
the  reddened,  sooted  hands,  and  looked  at  them. 
"I  will  kiss  them  —  kiss  them,"  she  cried,  "as 
soon  as  they  are  not  too  tender  and  painful."  And 
the  tears  poured  from  her  eyes  as  she  saw  the  blisters 
rising  under  the  burned  skin- 
Thus  he  became  to  her  the  realization  of  an  un- 
known nobility.  That  such  things  could  still  happen 
in  the  world!  That  it  had  been  done  for  her  sake! 
What  a  man  he  was,  able  to  do  all,  as  mighty  in 
good  as  in  evil,  a  man  of  great  achievements,  a  man 
of  strong  words  and  brilliant  deeds !  AJiero,  a  hero ! 
Created  different,  of  different  clay  from  other  men ! 
The  slave  of  a  caprice,  of  the  desire  of  a  moment, 
wild  and  fearful,  but  the  possessor  of  a  furious 
strength,  fearing  nothing. 

She  had  been  so  oppressed  all  the  evening,  and 
had  seen  only  sorrow  and  cruelty  and  cowardliness 
about  her.  Now  all  was  forgotten.  The  Countess  was 
again  happy  in  living.  The  goddess  of  twilight  had 
been  conquered,  and  light  and  color  again  clothed 
the  world. 

•  •••••••• 

On  the  same  night  the  cavaliers  were  shouting  and 


232  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

swearing  in  the  cavaliers'  wing  at  GostaBerling.  The 
old  gentlemen  wished  to  go  to  sleep,  but  it  was  im- 
possible. He  gave  them  no  peace.  It  was  in  vain 
they  put  out  the  lights  and  drew  their  bed-curtains ; 
he  continued  talking. 

He  told  them  first  what  an  angel  the  young 
Countess  was,  and  how  much  he  worshipped  her. 
He  would  serve  and  adore  her.  He  was  happy  in  the 
knowledge  that  every  one  had  forsaken  him.  He 
would  now  devote  his  life  to  her  service.  She  scorned 
him,  naturally,  but  he  would  be  content  to  lie  at  her 
feet  like  a  dog. 

Had  they  ever  noticed  Low  Island  in  the  Lof- 
ven  ?  H  ad  they  seen  it  from  the  south,  where  the  rug- 
ged cliff  raised  itself  abruptly  from  the  water?  Had 
they  seen  it  from  the  north,  where  it  sank  into  the 
lake  in  gentle  slope,  and  where  the  narrow  sand- 
banks, covered  with  tall,  beautiful  pines,  wound  out 
into  the  shallow  water  and  formed  lovely  little  lakes  ? 
There,  on  the  precipitous  height  where  the  remains 
of  an  old  castle  were  still  standing,  he  would  build 
a  palace  for  the  young  Countess  —  a  marble  pal- 
ace. Wide  stairs  would  be  hewn  in  the  rock  lead- 
ing down  to  the  lake,  where  gaily  flagged  boats 
would  land.  There  would  be  shining  halls  and  high 
towers  with  gilded  pinnacles.  It  would  be  a  suitable 
home  for  the  young  Countess.  That  old  wooden 
hovel  at  Borg  Point  was  not  worthy  she  should  set 
her  foot  in  it. 


THE  YOUNG  COUNTESS  233 

When  he  had  gone  on  like  this  for  some  time, 
a  snore  now  and  then  penetrated  the  yellow-striped 
curtains,  but  most  of  the  cavaliers  swore  and  railed 
over  him  and  his  mad  ideas. 

"  Fellow-men,"  he  continued,  solemnly,  "  I  see 
God's  world  covered  with  men's  handiwork  or  re- 
mains of  their  handiwork.  The  pyramids  weigh 
down  the  earth,  the  Tower  of  Babel  pierces  the  sky, 
beautiful  temples  and  grey  castles  have  been  raised 
from  the  dust.  But  of  all  that  has  been  built  by 
hands,  what  has  not  fallen  to  ruin  or  will  fall?  Oh, 
fellow-men,  throw  aside  the  bricklayer's  trowel  and 
mortar-board!  Spread  your  apron  over  your  head 
and  lie  down  and  build  fair  dream  castles !  What 
has  the  spirit  to  do  with  temples  of  clay  and  stone? 

Learn  to  build  everlasting  castles  of  dreams  and 

•  •        i » 

visions ! 

And  thereupon  he  went  off  laughing  to  bed. 

When  soon  afterwards  the  Countess  heard  that 
the  Major's  wife  had  been  set  at  liberty  by  the  cav- 
aliers, she  gave  a  dinner  party  in  their  honor,  and 
her  long  friendship  with  Gosta  Berling  dated  from 
that  time. 


(jhost  Stories 

OH,  children  of  a  later  day !  I  have  nothing  new 
to  tell  you;  nothing  but  what  is  old  and  al- 
most forgotten.  Tales  from  the  nursery,  where  the 
children  sit  on  low  stools  round  the  white-haired 
story-teller,  tales  from  the  workmen's  kitchen, 
where  the  farm  laborers  and  crofters  gather  about 
the  pine-wood  fire.  From  the  leather  sheaths  hang- 
ing round  their  necks  they  draw  their  knives  and 
butter  themselves  thick  slices  of  soft  bread,  as  they 
sit  about  and  chat,  while  the  steam  rises  in  clouds 
from  their  wet  clothing.  And  I  have  tales  from  the 
sitting-room,  where  old  gentlemen  sit  in  their  rock- 
ing-chairs and,  inspired  by  a  glass  of  steaming 
toddy,  talk  of  the  days  that  are  past  and  gone. 

And  listening  to  these  stories,  a  child,  standing 
at  the  window  on  a  wintry  night,  would  see,  instead 
of  the  clouds,  cavaliers  sweep  over  the  sky  in  their 
light  shays ;  to  her  the  stars  were  waxen  lights  shin- 
ing from  the  old  mansion  on  Borg  Point,  and  the 
spinning-wheel  which  hummed  in  the  next  room 
was  turned  by  old  Ulrika  Dillner,  for  the  child's 
head  was  full  of  these  men  and  women  of  the  olden 
days,  and  she  lived  and  dreamed  among  them. 

And  if  you  send  her,  whose  whole  soul  is  filled 
with  those  old  stories,  through  the  dark  garret  to 
the  pantry  beyond,  to  fetch  flax  or  some  crackers, 


GHOST  STORIES  235 

what  a  rush  of  little  feet,  what  a  hurried  dash  is 
made  down  the  stairs,  over  the  entry,  and  into  the 
kitchen !  For  in  the  dark  upstairs,  she  has  remem- 
bered the  stories  told  of  the  wicked  Sintram,  the 
owner  of  the  iron  works  at  Fors,  he  who  was  in 
league  with  the  devil. 

The  bones  of  Sintram  are  at  rest  long  years  ago 
in  Svartsjo  churchyard,  but  no  one  believes  his  soul 
is  with  God,  as  is  written  on  his  tombstone. 

As  long  as  he  lived,  he  was  one  of  those  men  to 
whose  house  on  long,  rainy  Sunday  afternoons  there 
came  a  heavy  calash  drawn  by  four  black  horses.  A 
darkly  clad,  elegant  gentleman  descended  and  went 
in  to  help  the  master  of  the  house  while  away  with 
cards  and  dice  the  dreary  monotony  of  the  hours 
which  were  his  despair.  Those  card  parties  were 
kept  up  till  after  midnight,  and  when  the  stranger 
drove  away  at  dawn,  he  always  left  behind  him  some 
gift  which  carried  misfortune  with  it. 

Yes,  as  long  as  Sintram  lived,  he  was  one  of  those 
whose  coming  was  heralded  by  unseen  powers.  One 
of  those  whose  shade  went  before  them,  their  car- 
riages rolled  into  your  courtyard,  whips  cracked, 
their  voices  were  heard  on  the  steps,  the  hall  door 
opened  and  shut,  the  dogs  were  roused  at  the  loud 
noise  they  made,  and  yet  there  was  no  one,  nothing 
to  be  seen,  it  was  only  the  apparition  which  always 
preceded  them. 

Ugh,  those  fearful  people  whom  the  wicked  spir- 


236  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

its  seek!  What  was  that  big  black  hound  seen  at 
Fors  in  Sintram's  time?  It  had  awful  gleaming 
teeth  and  a  long  tongue,  dripping  with  blood,  hang- 
ing out  of  its  panting  mouth !  Once  when  the  farm 
men  were  in  the  kitchen  having  dinner,  it  came  and 
scratched  at  the  kitchen  door.  All  the  servant  girls 
screamed  with  fright,  but  one  of  the  biggest  and 
strongest  of  the  men  caught  up  a  burning  log  from 
the  hearth,  opened  the  door,  and  thrust  it  down  the 
dog's  throat. 

It  had  rushed  away,  howling  horribly, flames  and 
smoke  pouring  out  of  its  mouth;  sparks  whirled 
about  it,  and  its  footsteps  on  the  road  shone  like 
fire. 

And  was  it  not  awful,  too,  that  although  Sintram 
drove  away  upon  his  journeys  with  his  black  horses, 
horses  never  brought  him  home  again.  When  he 
returned  at  night,  black  bulls  drew  his  carriage. 
People  living  by  the  roadside  saw  their  long  black 
horns  outlined  against  the  sky,  heard  their  bellow- 
ing, and  were  terrified  at  the  shower  of  sparks  struck 
out  by  their  hoofs  and  the  carriage  wheels  on  the 
dry  gravel. 

Yes,  there  was  ample  cause  for  the  scurrying  of 
small  feet  over  the  wide  floors  of  the  garret.  Ima- 
gine if  something  dreadful,  if  he  whose  name  it  was 
best  not  to  mention  were  to  come  out  of  the  dark 
corner !  You  could  not  feel  sure  he  would  not  do  it. 
It  was  not  only  to  the  wicked  he  showed  himself. 


GHOST  STORIES  237 

Had  not  Ulrika  Dillner  seen  him?  Yes,  both  she 
and  Anna  Stjarnhok  could  tell  you  about  it. 


Friends,  children  of  men!  You  who  dance  and  you 
who  laugh,  I  pray  you  that  you  dance  carefully 
and  laugh  kindly,  for  much  sorrow  may  come  to  pass 
if  your  thin-soled,  silken  shoe  treads  upon  a  ten- 
der human  heart  instead  of  the  hard  floor  planks, 
and  your  gay,  silver-ringing  laugh  may  drive  a  soul 
to  despair. 

It  must  have  been  that  the  young  people  had 
trampled  too  hard  upon  old  Ulrika  Dillner;  their 
laughter  must  have  sounded  too  overbearing  in  her 
ears,  for  suddenly  there  came  over  her  a  great  and 
irresistible  longing  for  the  title  and  dignity  belong- 
ing to  a  married  woman.  She  said  "Yes'  to  Sin- 
tram's  long  courtship,  married  him,  and  took  her 
place  at  Fors  as  his  wife,  leaving  her  old  friends  at 
Berga,  the  old  work  she  was  accustomed  to,  and  the 
old  struggle  for  daily  bread. 

It  was  a  hastily  arranged  wedding;  Sintram  pro- 
posed at  Christmas,  and  they  were  married  in  Feb- 
ruary. Anna  Stjarnhok  was  to  spend  the  winter  with 
the  Ugglas  and  more  than  filled  Ulrika's  place, 
thus  leaving  her  free  to  go  forth  and  win  for  her- 
self the  title  of  Fru. 

Her  conscience  had  nothing  to  reproach  her  with, 
yet  she  regretted  the  step  she  had  taken.  It  was 


238  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

anything  but  a  comfortable  home  she  had  come  to; 
the  big  empty  rooms  were  full  of  a  mysterious  ter- 
ror. As  soon  as  it  grew  dark,  she  began  to  be  afraid 
and  to  shudder.  She  almost  died  of  homesick- 
ness. The  long  Sunday  afternoons  were  the  worst — 
there  seemed  no  end  to  them,  nor  to  the  train  of 
painful  thoughts  which  passed  slowly  through  her 
mind. 

And  so  it  happened,  one  Sunday  in  March,  when 
Sintram  had  not  returned  home  after  church,  she 
went  upstairs  into  the  salon  and  sat  down  at  her 
harpsichord.  It  was  her  only  comfort.  The  old  harp- 
sichord, with  a  piper  and  shepherdess  painted  on 
its  white  cover,  was  her  own  property,  inherited 
from  her  parents*  home.  She  could  tell  it  all  her 
grief,  and  it  would  understand. 

But  isn't  it  both  pitiful  and  ridiculous?  Can  you 
guess  what  she  played?  A  polka — when  she  was  in 
such  great  distress! 

Oh,  she  knew  nothing  else.  Before  her  fingers 
stiffened  round  the  dusting  switch  and  the  carver, 
she  had  learned  this  one  polka,  and  her  fingers 
remembered  it  still.  She  knew  no  funeral  march 
nor  passionate  sonata  —  not  even  a  mournful  folk- 
song—  nothing  but  that  polka. 

And  she  played  it  whenever  she  had  anything 
to  confide  to  the  old  clavier;  when  she  could  have 
wept,  and  when  she  wished  to  laugh.  She  played  it  at 
her  own  wedding,  when  she  came  to  her  new  home, 


GHOST  STORIES  239 

and  she  played  it  now.  The  old  strings  understood 
her  well  enough  —  she  was  wretched — wretched. 

A  passer-by,  hearing  the  sound  of  the  polka, 
might  have  thought  that  Sintram  was  giving  a  ball 
to  his  neighbors  and  friends — it  was  such  an  ex- 
traordinarily cheery  and  lively  air.  In  the  old  days 
it  rang  gaiety  in  and  hunger  out  of  Berga,  and  all 
were  ready  to  dance  when  it  sounded.  Rheumatic 
muscles  burst  their  bonds,  and  its  gay  strains  had 
tempted  eighty-year-old  cavaliers  to  try  the  polka. 
All  the  world  would  have  danced  to  that  polka, 
but  old  Ulrika  wept. 

She  had  surly,  ill-tempered  servants  and  savage 
animals  around  her ;  she  longed  for  kind  and  smiling 
faces,  and  the  polka  must  express  her  great  longing. 

People  found  it  difficult  to  remember  that  she 
was  Fru  Sintram.  They  still  called  her  Mamsell 
Dillner,  and  the  polka  expressed  her  sorrow  over 
the  vanity  which  had  tempted  her  to  run  after  the 
dignity  accorded  to  a  married  woman. 

She  played  as  if  she  meant  to  break  the  strings 
of  the  harpsichord;  there  was  so  much  she  must 
drown  in  its  tones  —  the  cries  of  the  ill-used  peas- 
antry, the  curses  of  the  crofters,  the  taunting  laugh- 
ter of  defiant  servants,  and,  worst  of  all,  the  shame 
—  the  shame  of  being  a  bad  man's  wife. 

To  that  same  tune  Gosta  Berling  had  led  out 
young  Countess  Dohna  to  the  dance,  Marienne  Sin- 
claire  and  her  many  admirers  had  danced  to  it,  and 


240  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

even  the  Lady  of  Ekeby  had  kept  time  to  it  in  the 
days  when  handsome  Altringer  lived.  She  saw  them, 
couple  after  couple,  united  by  youth  and  beauty, 
as  they  whirled  before  her,  and  a  stream  of  gaiety 
passed  from  her  to  them  and  back  to  her.  It  was 
her  polka  which  made  their  cheeks  burn  and  their 
eyes  shine  like  that.  She  was  far  from  it  all  now,  but 
the  polka  still  rang  out;  there  were  so  many  happy 
memories  to  drown! 

She  played,  too,  to  deaden  her  fear.  Her  heart 
grew  faint  with  fright  when  she  saw  the  black 
hound,  or  heard  the  servants  whisper  about  the 
black  bulls  —  and  she  played  the  polka,  over  and 
over  again,  to  deaden  that  fear. 

Presently  she  noticed  that  her  husband  had  re- 
turned. She  heard  him  come  into  the  room  and  sit 
down  in  the  rocking-chair.  She  recognized  his  way 
of  rocking  and  the  noise  made  by  the  rockers  scrap- 
ing against  the  deal  floor  so  well  that  she  did  not 
turn  toward  him. 

And  still,  as  she  played,  the  rocking  continued 
till  it  drowned  all  the  sounds  of  her  polka. 

Poor  old  Ulrika,  so  wearied,  so  helpless  and 
lonely,  alone  in  the  enemies'  country,  without  a 
friend  to  complain  to,  with  no  better  companion 
than  an  old  harpsichord  which  answered  her  grief 
with  a  polka! 

It  was  like  a  laugh  at  a  funeral  or  a  drinking 
song  in  church.  And  while  the  chair  still  rocked 


GHOST  STORIES  241 

behind  her,  it  suddenly  seemed  to  her  that  her 
harpsichord  was  laughing  at  her,  and  she  stopped 
abruptly  in  the  middle  of  a  bar.  She  got  up  and 
glanced  behind  her.  A  moment  later  she  was  lying 
unconscious  on  the  floor.  It  was  not  her  husband 
sitting  there — but  another — he  whose  name  it  is 
best  for  children  not  to  mention,  who  would  frighten 
them  to  death  if  they  met  him  in  the  dark  garret. 


Ah,  if  your  soul  has  been  satiated  with  such  stories 
as  these,  is  it  possible  to  free  yourself  from  their 
power?  To-night  the  wind  is  howling  outside,  and 
a  fecus  palm  and  a  rosebush  are  beating  their  stiff 
leaves  against  the  balcony  pillars  —  the  sky  hangs 
darkly  over  the  far-reaching  hills,  and  I,  sitting 
here,  with  my  lamp  lighted  and  my  curtains  drawn 
aside,  I,  already  growing  old  and  therefore  bound 
to  be  sensible,  still  feel  the  same  creepiness  upon 
my  spine  as  when  I  heard  the  story;  I  am  com- 
pelled to  raise  my  eyes  from  my  work  and  glance 
round  repeatedly  to  see  that  no  one  has  stolen  into 
the  room  and  is  hiding  in  that  corner;  I  must  glance 
into  the  balcony  to  be  sure  that  no  black  head  raises 
itself  over  the  railing.  This  fear,  fostered  by  the  old 
ghost  stories,  never  leaves  me,  and,  when  the  nights 
are  dark  and  I  am  alone,  it  grows  so  overwhelming 
that  I  must  cast  aside  my  pen,  creep  into  bed,  and 
draw  the  blankets  over  my  head. 


242  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

It  was  the  great  secret  wonder  of  my  childhood 
that  Ulrika  Dillner  lived  through  that  afternoon. 
I  could  not  have  done  it. 

It  was  fortunate  that  Anna  Stjarnhok  drove  up 
to  the  house  about  that  time!  She  found  Ulrika 
lying  on  the  floor  in  the  salon  and  brought  her  back 
to  consciousness.  I  should  not  have  been  so  easy  to 
bring  back  to  life.  I  should  have  been  dead. 

I  hope,  dear  friends,  that  you  will  never  see  the 
tears  of  the  aged,  and  that  you  may  never  stand 
helpless  when  a  grey  head  leans  against  your  breast 
to  find  support,  and  old  hands  are  clasped  upon 
yours  in  silent  prayer.  May  you  never  see  the  aged 
sink  in  sorrow  which  you  cannot  lighten.  For  what  is 
the  grief  of  youth  Pit  has  still  strength  and  hope,  but 
how  terrible  it  is  to  see  the  old  weep  —  what  despair 
you  feel  when  they,  who  have  been  the  support  of 
your  young  life,  sink  down  in  helpless  misery. 

Anna  Stjarnhok  sat  and  listened  to  old  Ulrika, 
and  she  saw  no  way  of  helping  her.  The  old  woman 
cried  and  trembled,  her  eyes  were  wild — she  ram- 
bled on  and  talked  incoherently,  almost  as  if  she 
no  longer  remembered  where  she  was.  The  thou- 
sand wrinkles  which  covered  her  face  were  twice  as 
deep  as  usual,  the  false  curls  which  hung  round  her 
face  were  uncurled  and  disordered  by  her  tears,  and 
the  long,  thin  figure  shook  with  sobs. 

At  last  Anna  felt  she  must  put  a  stop  to  it.  She 
had  decided  what  she  would  do.  She  would  take 


GHOST  STORIES  243 

Ulrika  back  to  Berga.  Although  she  was  undoubt- 
edly Sintram's  wife,  she  could  not  remain  at  Fors. 
She  would  go  mad  if  she  remained  with  him.  Anna 
decided  to  take  her  away. 

How  frightened  and  yet  how  delighted  Ulrika 
was  with  this  decision! 

But  oh,  no,  she  certainly  would  not  dare  to  leave 
her  husband  and  her  home.  He  might,  perhaps, 
send  the  black  dog  after  her. 

But  Anna  conquered,  partly  by  deception,  partly 
by  threats;  and  in  half  an  hour  she  had  her  in  the 
sledge  beside  her.  Anna  drove  herself,  and  old  Disa 
was  in  the  shafts ;  the  roads  were  bad,  for  it  was  late 
in  March,  but  it  did  Ulrika  good  to  be  sitting  again 
in  the  well-known  sledge,  behind  the  horse  which 
had  served  Berga  as  faithfully  and  as  long  as  she 
herself  had  done. 

Being  of  a  cheerful  temperament  and  a  dauntless 
mind,  this  old  household  drudge  stopped  crying 
by  the  time  they  passed  Arvidstorp;  at  Hogberg 
she  was  already  laughing,  while  at  Munkerud  she 
was  telling  Anna  her  experiences  in  her  youth  with 
the  Countess  at  Svaneholm. 

They  turned  into  the  lonely  deserted  district  be- 
yond Munkeby.  The  road  climbed  every  height  it 
could  possibly  reach,  it  crept  to  the  top  in  lengthy 
curves,  leaped  down  in  steep  descent,  and  then 
rushed  as  rapidly  as  possible  over  the  level  valley 
to  climb  the  nearest  height  again. 


244  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

They  were  just  about  to  drive  down  the  hill  at 
Vestratorp  when  old  Ulrika  paused  suddenly  in  her 
talk  and  caught  Anna  by  the  arm.  She  was  staring 
at  a  big  black  dog  on  the  roadside. 

"Look!J>  she  cried. 

The  dog  turned  and  set  off  into  the  woods.  Anna 
did  not  see  him  very  clearly. 

"  Drive ! "  cried  Ulrika ;  " drive  as  quickly  as  you 
can.  Sintram  will  hear  directly  that  I  am  gone." 

Anna  tried  to  laugh  her  out  of  her  fancy,  but  it 
was  impossible. 

"We  shall  hear  his  sleigh-bells  directly,  you'll 
see.  We  shall  hear  them  before  we  reach  the  top 
of  the  next  hill." 

And  while  old  Disa  took  a  breath  on  the  top  of 
Elofsbacke  they  heard  sleigh-bells  below  them. 

Old  Ulrika  grew  quite  wild  with  fear.  She  trem- 
bled, sobbed,  and  wailed  as  she  had  done  in  the 
salon  at  Fors.  Anna  tried  to  whip  up  old  Disa,  but 
the  horse  only  turned  its  head  and  gave  her  a  look 
of  the  profoundest  astonishment.  Did  she  imagine 
old  Disa  did  not  know  the  right  time  to  trot  and 
when  to  walk?  Was  she  going  to  teach  her  to  pull 
the  sledge,  teach  her,  who  knew  every  stone,  every 
bridge  and  gate,  and  every  hillock  on  the  road  for 
the  last  twenty  years? 

And  the  sleigh-bells  sounded  nearer. 

"It  is  he — it  is  he  —  I  know  his  bells,"  wailed 
Ulrika. 


GHOST  STORIES  245 

Thesound  still  approached.  Sometimes  it  seemed 
so  loud  that  Anna  turned  her  head,  expecting  to 
see  the  head  of  Sintram's  horse  just  behind  their 
sledge  —  sometimes  it  died  away.  Now  they  heard 
it  on  the  right,  now  on  the  left  of  the  road,  but  they 
saw  no  one.  It  seemed  as  though  the  sleigh-bells 
followed  them. 

And  just  as  such  bells  rang  in  melodies,  sang, 
talked,  and  answered  when  you  returned  at  night 
from  a  ball,  so  they  sang  and  talked  and  answered 
now.  The  whole  forest  echoed  with  their  tune. 

Anna  Stjarnhok  began  to  wish  something  would 
appear — to  see  Sintram  and  his  red  horse.  That 
dreadful  bell-ringing  began  to  unnerve  her. 

She  was  not  afraid,  she  had  never  been  afraid,  but 
those  sleigh-bells  distracted  and  tortured  her. 

"  Those  sleigh-bells  torment  me/'  she  said  at  last, 
and  immediately  the  words  were  caught  up  by  the 
bells."  Torment  me,"  they  rang;  "torment,  torment, 
torment  me,"  they  sang  in  every  possible  tone. 

It  was  not  long  since  she  had  driven  over  this 
same  road  hunted  by  wolves.  In  the  darkness  she 
had  seen  white  teeth  glance  in  gaping  mouths,  she 
had  expected  her  body  to  be  torn  to  pieces  by 
the  savage  brutes,  but  she  had  not  been  afraid.  She 
had  never  lived  through  a  more  glorious  night. 
Strong  and  beautiful  the  horse  had  been  that  car- 
ried her,  strong  and  beautiful,  too,  was  the  man  who 
had  shared  the  joy  of  adventure  with  her. 


246  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

Oh,  this  old  horse  and  this  helpless,  trembling 
comrade!  She  felt  herself  so  helpless,  too,  she  could 
have  wept.  It  was  impossible  to  escape  from  that 
dreadful,  irritating  ringing. 

She  drew  up  and  got  out  of  the  sledge.  There 
must  be  an  end  to  it;  why  should  she  flee,  as  if  she 
were  afraid  of  the  wicked,  contemptible  wretch? 

At  last  she  saw  a  horse's  head  appear  out  of  the 
gathering  twilight,  then  a  whole  horse,  a  sledge,  and 
in  the  sledge  sat — Sintram. 

She  noticed,  however,  that  it  did  not  appear  as 
if  it  had  come  along  the  road,  this  sledge  with  horse 
and  master,  but  seemed  as  if  it  had  been  created 
under  her  eyes,  and  appeared  just  as  it  was  finished. 

Anna  threw  the  reins  to  Ulrika  and  went  to  meet 
Sintram. 

He  pulled  up  his  horse. 

"See,  see,"  he  cried,  "what  exceptional  luck  I 
have!  Dear  Froken  Stjarnhok,  may  I  hand  over 
my  companion  into  your  sledge?  He  is  going  to 
Berga  this  evening,  and  I  am  in  a  hurry  to  be  at 
home." 

"Where  is  your  companion?"  asked  Anna. 

Sintram  threwopen  the  sledge  cover, and  showed 
Anna  a  man  sleeping  at  the  bottom  of  the  sledge. 
"He  is  a  little  tipsy,"  he  said,  "but  it  won't  mat- 
ter. He  is  sure  to  sleep  soundly.  Any  way  he  is  an 
acquaintance  of  yours,  Froken  Stjarnhok  —  it  is 
Gosta  Berling." 


GHOST  STORIES  247 

Anna  started. 

"Yes,  I  may  say,"  continued  Sintram,  "that  she 
who  gives  up  her  beloved  sells  him  to  the  devil. 
That  was  the  way  I  got  into  his  claws.  One  thinks 
one  is  going  to  do  so  much  good;  sacrifice  is  a 
good  thing,  but  love,  that  is  evil." 

"What  do  you  mean?  What  are  you  talking 
about?"  Anna  asked,  shaken  with  feeling. 

"  I  mean  that  you  shouldn't  have  let  Gosta  Ber- 
ling  give  you  up,  Froken  Anna!' 

"It  was  God's  will  — " 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,  to  sacrifice  one's  self  is  right, 
to  love  is  wrong.  The  good  Lord  does  not  like  to 
see  people  happy.  He  sends  wolves  after  them;  but 
what  if  it  wasn't  God's  doing,  Froken  Anna?  Sup- 
pose it  was  I  who  called  my  nice  grey  lambs  from 
Dovrefjall  to  chase  that  young  man  and  woman? 
Suppose  I  sent  them  because  I  feared  to  lose  one 
of  my  elect?  Suppose  it  wasn't  God  who  did  it?' 

"You  must  not  tempt  me  to  doubt  on  that  point, 
Herr  Sintram,"  said  Anna,  in  a  weak  voice,  "or  I 
am  lost." 

"  See  here,"  said  he,  leaning  over  the  sleeping  man, 
"look  at  his  little  finger.  That  tiny  cut  never  heals. 
The  blood  was  drawn  from  there  when  he  signed 
the  contract.  He  is  mine.  There  is  a  peculiar  power 
in  blood.  He  is  mine  —  it  is  only  love  that  can  free 
him  .  .  .  but  if  I  keep  him,  he  will  be  a  fine  fellow." 

Anna  Stjarnhok  fought  against  the  enchantment 


248  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

which  seemed  to  beenvelopingher.  It  was  stupidity, 
rank  stupidity,  no  one  could  sign  away  his  soul  to 
the  devil ;  but  she  had  no  control  over  her  thoughts, 
the  twilight  hung  so  heavily  over  her,  the  forest 
round  about  was  so  dark  and  quiet.  She  could  not 
escape  the  hour's  mysterious  dread  creeping  over 
her. 

"Perhaps  you  think," continued  Sintram," there 
isn't  much  to  be  destroyed  in  him?  But  there  is. 
Has  he  ever  ground  down  the  peasants  or  deceived 
his  poor  friends  or  played  falsely?  Has  he  been 
the  lover  of  married  women  ? ' 

"I  shall  believe  you  are  the  devil  himself,  Herr 
Sintram ! ' 

"Let  us  exchange,  Froken  Anna — you  take 
Gosta  Berling,  take  him  and  marry  him.  Take  him 
and  give  your  friends  at  Berga  money.  I  give  him 
up  to  you — and,  you  know,  he  is  mine.  Remember 
it  was  n't  God  who  sent  the  wolves  after  you  that 
night,  and  let  us  exchange!' 

"And  what  will  you  take  in  his  place?' 

Sintram  grinned. 

"  I,  what  will  I  have?  Oh,  I  shall  be  satisfied  with 
little.  I  only  ask  for  that  old  woman  in  your  sledge, 
Froken  Anna." 

"Satan  —  tempter,"  Anna  cried,  "leave  me!  Am 
I  to  fail  an  old  friend  who  depends  upon  me  ?  Am  I 
to  leave  her  to  you,  that  you  may  drive  her  to  mad- 
ness?" 


GHOST  STORIES  249 

"See,  see,  be  calm,  Froken  Anna !  Think  it  over! 
There  is  a  fine  young  man  and  there  an  old  worn- 
out  woman.  One  of  them  I  must  have.  Which  shall 
it  be?" 

Anna  Stjarnhok  laughed  despairingly. 

"  Do  you  think  we  can  stand  here  and  exchange 
souls  as  one  exchanges  horses  at  Broby  market- 
place?" 

"Yes,  just  so  —  but  if  you  wish,  Froken  Anna, 
we  will  arrange  it  in  another  way.  We  must  remem- 
ber the  Stjarnhok  honor." 

And  he  suddenly  began  to  call  and  shout  to  his 
wife,  who  was  sitting  alone  some  distance  ahead  in 
the  other  sledge,  and  to  Anna's  unspeakable  horror, 
she  obeyed  him  at  once,  stepped  out  of  the  sledge, 
and  came  trembling  toward  them. 

"  See,  see,"  said  Sintram, "  what  an  obedient  wife ! 
Froken  Stjarnhok  has  nothing  to  do  with  it  if  she 
comes  when  her  husband  calls.  Now  I  will  lift  Gosta 
out  of  my  sledge  and  leave  him  here  on  the  road. 
Leave  him  forever,  Froken  Anna,  —  and  who  likes 
may  take  him  up." 

He  bent  down  to  take  the  sleeping  figure,  but 
Anna,  bending  down  and  looking  directly  into  his 
eyes,  hissed  out  like  a  tortured  animal  — 

"In  God's  name,  go  home  at  once!  Don't  you 
know  who  is  sitting  in  the  rocking-chair  and  wait- 
ing for  you?  Dare  you  let  that  gentleman  wait?' 

It  was  to  Anna  almost  the  most  terrible  of  that 


250  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

day's  dreadful  occurrences  to  see  the  effect  of  those 
words.  Sintram  clutched  at  his  reins,  turned,  and 
drove  homeward,  lashing  the  horse  to  wildness  with 
his  shouts  and  blows.  Down  the  steep  hillside  they 
flew  at  a  dangerous  pace,  while  a  line  of  sparks 
flashed  under  the  sledge  runners  and  the  horse's 
hoofs  on  the  rough  March  roads. 

Anna  Stjarnhok  and  old  Ulrika  stood  alone  on 
the  road,  but  they  had  no  word  to  say  to  each  other. 
Ulrika  trembled  at  the  sight  of  Anna's  wild  eyes, 
and  Anna  had  nothing  to  say  to  the  poor  creature 
for  whose  sake  she  had  sacrificed  her  lover. 

She  longed  to  scream,  to  throw  herself  on  the 
ground  and  strew  the  snow  and  sand  upon  her  head. 

She  had  known  the  beauty  of  sacrifice  before, 
now  she  felt  its  bitterness.  To  sacrifice  her  love  was 
nothing  in  comparison  to  offering  up  the  soul  of 
her  lover! 

They  reached  Berga  in  silence,  but  when  they 
arrived  and  the  sitting-room  door  opened,  Anna 
Stjarnhok  fainted  for  the  first  and  last  time  in  her 
life.  There  in  the  room  sat  Gosta  Berling  and  Sin- 
tram,  chatting  in  all  good  fellowship,  the  toddy 
glasses  on  the  table.  They  must  have  been  there 
quite  an  hour. 

Anna  Stjarnhok  fainted,  but  old  Ulrika  stood 
calm.  She  had  noted  that  all  didn't  seem  quite  right 
with  their  pursuer  on  the  road. 

Afterwards   it   was   arranged    between    Captain 


GHOST  STORIES  251 

Uggla  and  Sintram  that  Ulrika  should  remain  at 
Berga.  He  took  it  all  very  good-naturedly;  he  cer- 
tainly did  not  wish  her  to  go  mad,  he  said. 


Oh,  children  of  a  later  day! 

I  cannot  demand  that  any  one  should  believe 
these  old  stories.  They  may  be  nothing  but  lies  and 
fancies,but  the  fear  which  rolls  over  the  human  heart, 
till  it  wails  like  the  floor  planks  under  Sintram's  rock- 
ing-chair, the  doubt  which  rings  in  your  ears,  as  the 
sleigh-bells  rang  in  Anna  Stjarnhok's  in  the  lonely 
forest,  are  they  only  lies  and  fancies? 

Oh,  if  they  only  were! 


Bbba  TDohna's  Story 

BEWARE  of  the  beautiful  promontory  on  the 
east  shore  of  the  Lofven,  of  the  proud  prom- 
ontory round  which  the  bays  curve  in  gentle  waves, 
where  Borg  Hall  stands.  The  Lofven  is  never  so 
beautiful  as  seen  from  its  crest.  No  one  knows  how 
lovely  is  this  lake  of  my  dreams,  if  from  Borg 
promontory  he  has  not  watched  the  morning  mists 
glide  away  from  its  gleaming  surface,  and  from  the 
window  of  the.  little  blue  cabinet  where  so  many 
memories  live  seen  it  reflect  a  rosy  sunset. 

But  I  still  say — beware  of  going  thither. 

For  you  may  be  tempted  to  remain  in  the  sor- 
row-laden halls  of  the  old  estate;  you  will  perhaps 
become  the  owner  of  this  beautiful  spot,  and  if  you 
are  young,  rich,  and  happy,  you  may  make  your 
home  here  with  a  young  bride,  as  many  another  has 
done. 

No ;  better  never  to  have  seen  the  beautiful  prom- 
ontory, for  happiness  cannot  dwell  in  Borg.  Know 
that,  however  rich,  however  happy  you  may  be, 
those  old-fashioned  floors  will  soon  drinkjy0#r  tears ; 
those  walls,  which  have  echoed  so  many  sounds  of 
sorrow,  will  also  echo  your  sighs. 

There  lies  an  untoward  fate  over  that  beautiful 
estate.  It  seems  as  though  sorrow  were  buried  there, 
but  could  find  no  rest  in  its  grave,  and  rose  again  to 


EBBA  DOHNA'S  STORY  253 

terrify  the  living.  If  I  were  master  at  Borg,  I  would 
search  the  stony  ground  of  the  pine  wood,  and 
under  the  cellar  floor  of  the  mansion,  and  in  the  fer- 
tile earth  of  the  surrounding  fields,  till  I  found  the 
worm-eaten  corpse  of  the  witch,  and  I  would  give 
her  a  grave  in  consecrated  ground  at  Svartsjo 
churchyard.  And  at  her  funeral  there  should  be  no 
lack  of  bell-ringers;  the  bells  should  peal  loud  and 
long  over  her;  and  I  would  give  rich  gifts  to  the 
priest  and  the  sexton,  that  they  might  wed  her  to 
everlasting  rest  with  redoubled  vigor. 

Or  if  this  were  ineffective,  I  would  let  fire  encircle 
the  bulging  wooden  walls  some  stormy  night  and 
let  it  destroy  it  all, so  that  no  one  could  ever  again  be 
tempted  to  live  in  that  unhappy  house.  And  after- 
wards no  one  should  enter  upon  that  fated  place, 
only  the  black  daws  from  the  church  tower  might 
found  a  colony  in  the  tall  chimney  stack  which 
raised  itself  black  and  awful  over  the  charred  ground. 

Yet  I  should  certainly  be  frightened  to  see  the 
flames  leap  over  the  roof,  to  see  thick  smoke,  red- 
dened by  the  flare  of  the  flames  and  flaked  with 
sparks,  pour  forth  from  the  old  mansion.  I  should 
fancy  I  heard  the  wail  of  homeless  memories  in  the 

j 

roar  and  crackling  of  the  flames,  and  saw  homeless 
ghosts  float  in  their  blue  points.  I  should  remember 
how  sorrow  and  unhappiness  beautifies, and  I  should 
weep,  feeling  that  a  temple  of  the  old  gods  had  been 
doomed  to  destruction. 


254  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

But  silence,  you  who  croak  of  misfortune!  Wait 
till  night,  if  you  would  hoot  in  concert  with  the 
forest  owl.  Borg  still  gleamed  on  the  height  of  the 
promontory,  protected  by  its  park  of  mighty  pine 
trees,  and  the  snow-covered  fields  below  glittered 
in  the  blinding  sunlight  of  a  March  morning,  and 
the  glad  laugh  of  the  gay  little  Countess  Elizabeth 
was  heard  within  its  walls. 

On  Sundays  she  used  to  go  to  Svartsjo  church, 
which  lay  near  Borg,  and  gather  together  some 
friends  to  dinner.  The  Judge  from  Munkerud  and 
his  family  and  the  Ugglas  from  Berga,  the  curate 
and  his  wife  and  wicked  Sintram  usually  came,  and 
if  Gosta  Berling  had  come  to  Svartsjo  over  the  ice 
of  the  Lofven,  she  invited  him  too.  Why  should 
she  not  invite  Gosta  Berling? 

She  probably  did  not  know  gossips  already  whis- 
pered that  Gosta  went  to  the  east  shore  so  often 
for  the  purpose  of  meeting  the  Countess.  Perhaps 
he  also  went  to  sup  and  gamble  with  Sintram;  but 
no  one  thought  much  of  that,  they  all  knew  his 
body  was  like  iron,  but  it  was  quite  another  thing 
with  his  heart.  No  one  believed  that  he  could  see 
a  pair  of  bright  eyes  and  fair  hair  curling  round  a 
white  forehead  without  falling  in  love. 

The  young  Countess  was  very  kind  to  him;  but 
there  was  nothing  exceptional  in  that,  for  she  was 
kind  to  all.  She  seated  ragged  urchins  on  her  knee; 
and  when  driving,  if  she  passed  any  poor  old  wretch 


EBBA  DOHNA'S  STORY  255 

on  the  wayside,  she  made  the  coachman  pull  up  and 
took  the  wanderer  into  her  sledge. 

Gosta  sat  in  the  little  blue  cabinet,  where  you 
have  the  lovely  view  northward  over  the  lake,  and 
read  poetry  to  her.  There  was  no  harm  in  it.  He 
did  not  forget  what  she  was.  A  Countess!  and  he 
was  a  homeless  wanderer  and  adventurer;  and  it 
did  him  good  to  associate  with  some  one  who  stood 
high  and  holy  over  him.  He  might  as  well  think  of 
falling  in  love  with  the  Queen  of  Sheba,  who  deco- 
rated the  front  of  the  gallery  in  Svartsjo  church,  as 
with  the  Countess  Dohna. 

He  only  desired  to  serve  her  as  a  page  serves 
his  mistress  —  to  be  allowed  to  fasten  on  her  skates, 
hold  her  wool  skeins,  or  steer  her  coasting  sledge. 
There  could  be  no  question  of  love  between  them, 
but  he  was  the  kind  of  man  to  find  pleasure  in  a 
romantic,  harmless  sentiment. 

The  young  Count  was  silent  and  serious,  and 
Gosta  was  gaiety  itself.  He  was  just  the  companion 
the  Countess  desired.  No  one  seeing  her  dreamed 
of  her  cherishing  an  unlawful  passion.  She  cared 
only  for  dancing — dancing  and  gaiety.  She  would 
like  the  world  to  be  quite  level,  without  any  stones 
or  hills  or  lakes,  so  that  you  could  dance  over  it  all. 
She  would  like  to  dance  all  the  way  from  her  cradle 
to  her  grave  in  her  narrow,  thin-soled  silken  shoes. 

But  gossip  is  not  very  merciful  toward  young 
women. 


256  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

When  these  guests  dined  at  Borg,  the  gentlemen 
usually  went  after  dinner  into  the  Count's  room  to 
smoke  and  take  a  nap;  the  old  ladies  sank  into 
the  armchairs  in  the  salon  and  leaned  their  worthy 
heads  against  the  high-cushioned  backs;  but  the 
Countess  and  Anna  Stjarnhok  went  away  into  the 
blue  cabinet  and  exchanged  endless  confidences. 

And  on  the  Sunday  following  the  one  on  which 
Anna  had  taken  old  Ulrika  Dillner  back  to  Berga, 
they  were  sitting  there  again. 

No  one  on  earth  was  more  wretched  than  Anna. 
All  her  gaiety  was  gone,  as  was  the  happy  audacity 
with  which  she  met  every  one. and  everything  that 
threatened  to  touch  her. 

All  that  had  taken  place  that  day  had  sunk,  in 
her  consciousness,  into  the  twilight  from  which  it 
had  emanated.  She  had  not  a  single  clear  impres- 
sion. 

Yes,  one — which  poisoned  her  soul. 

"  If  it  was  not  God,"  she  kept  whispering  to  her- 
self,— "if  it  was  not  God,  who  sent  the  wolves?1 

She  demanded  a  sign,  a  miracle.  She  searched 
the  heavens  and  the  earth,  but  she  saw  no  hand 
stretched  from  the  skies  to  point  out  her  way.  No 
cloud  of  smoke  and  fire  went  before  her. 

As  she  sat  opposite  the  Countess  in  the  little 
blue  cabinet,  her  eyes  fell  upon  a  small  bouquet  of 
blue  anemones  which  the  Countess  held  in  her  white 
hand.  Like  lightning  it  flashed  across  her  that  she 


EBBA  DOHNA'S  STORY  257 

knew  where  they  had  grown,  that  she  knew  who 
had  plucked  them. 

There  was  no  necessity  to  ask.  Where  in  all  the 
country  did  blue  anemones  grow  in  April  but  in 
the  birchwood  on  the  shore  slope  near  Ekeby? 

She  gazed  and  gazed  at  the  small  blue  stars  — 
those  happy  flowers  who  win  all  hearts;  those  little 
prophets  who,  beautiful  themselves,  are  glorified  in 
the  glamour  of  all  that  they  foretell,  of  all  the  beau- 
tiful to  come.  And  as  she  looked  at  them,  anger 
began  to  shake  her  soul  — anger  which  rumbled  like 
thunder  and  streamed  like  lightning.  "  By  what 
right,"  she  thought,  "does  the  Countess  wear  that 
bunch  of  anemones  plucked  on  the  shore  road  from 
Ekeby?" 

They  were  all  tempters —  Sintram,  the  Countess, 
every  one  tried  to  tempt  Gosta  to  evil  ways;  but  she 
would  defend  him,  she  would  defend  him  against 
them  all.  If  it  cost  her  her  heart's  blood,  she  would 
do  it. 

She  felt  she  must  see  those  flowers  torn  from  the 
Countess's  hand  and  cast  aside,  trampled,  destroyed , 
before  she  left  the  little  blue  cabinet. 

She  felt  this,  and  began  a  strife  against  the  little 
blue  stars.  In  the  salon  the  old  ladies  leaned  their 
heads  against  the  backs  of  their  armchairs,  and  sus- 
pected nothing;  the  old  gentlemen  puffed  their 
pipes  in  peace  and  quietness  in  the  Count's  room  — 
all  was  calm,  only  in  the  little  blue  cabinet  raged 


258  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

a  fierce  strife.  Ah,  they  do  well  who  can  hold  their 
hands  from  the  sword,  who  can  bear  in  patience,  can 
quiet  their  hearts  and  let  God  guide  their  path!  The 
uneasy  heart  is  forever  going  astray;  evil  ever  makes 
the  evil  worse. 

But  Anna  Stjarnhok  thought  she  had  at  last  seen 
a  sign. 

<c  Anna,"  said  the  Countess,  "tell  me  a  story." 

"What  about?" 

"Oh,"  said  the  Countess,  caressing  the  bouquet 
with  her  white  fingers, "  don't  you  know  something 
about  love,  something  about  loving?' 

"No,  I  know  nothing  about  loving." 

"How  you  talk!  Isn't  there  a  place  here  called 
Ekeby,  a  place  full  of  cavaliers?' 

"Yes,"  said  Anna,  "there  is  a  place  here  called 
Ekeby,  and  there  are  men  who  suck  out  the  marrow 
of  the  country,  who  make  us  incapable  of  earnest 
work,  who  ruin  the  youth  growing  up  around  them, 
and  lead  our  geniuses  astray.  Do  you  want  to  hear 
love  stories  about  them?' 

"Yes,  I  do  —  I  like  the  cavaliers." 

Then  Anna  spoke  —  spoke  in  short,  curt  sen- 
tences like  an  old  hymn  book,  for  she  was  nearly 
stifled  by  stormy  feeling.  Hidden  passion  trembled 
in  every  word,  and  the  Countess,  both  frightened 
and  interested,  listened  to  her. 

"What  is  the  love  and  the  faith  of  a  cavalier? 
A  sweetheart  to-day,  another  to-morrow,  one  in  the 


EBBA  DOHNA'S  STORY  259 

east,  one  in  the  west.  Nothing  is  too  high  for  him, 
nothing  too  low;  one  day  a  count's  daughter,  the 
next  a  beggar  girl.  Nothing  in  the  world  is  so  roomy 
as  his  heart.  But  wretched,  wretched  is  she  who  loves 
a  cavalier!  She  must  search  for  him  while  he  lies 
drunk  on  the  wayside.  She  must  silently  watch  him 
laying  waste  the  home  of  her  children  at  the  gam- 
bling-table. She  must  endure  seeing  him  hanging 
about  strange  women.  Oh,  Elizabeth,  if  a  cavalier 
begs  a  decent  woman  for  a  dance,  she  ought  to  re- 
fuse him;  if  he  gives  her  flowers,  she  ought  to  throw 
them  away  and  trample  on  them;  if  she  loves  him, 
she  ought  to  die  rather  than  marry  him.  Among  the 
cavaliers  was  one  who  was  a  disgraced  clergy  man. . . . 
He  was  dismissed  from  his  calling  because  he  drank. 
He  was  drunk  in  church:  he  drank  the  sacramental 
wine.  Have  you  heard  of  him?' 

"No." 

"After  he  was  suspended,  he  ranged  the  country 
as  a  beggar.  He  drank  like  a  madman.  He  would 
even  steal  to  get  gin." 

"What  is  his  name?' 

"  He  is  no  longer  at  Ekeby.  The  Major's  wife 
took  him  in  hand,  gave  him  clothes,  and  persuaded 
your  mother-in-law,  Countess  Marta,  to  make  him 
tutor  to  your  husband,  young  Count  Henrik." 

"A  discharged  clergyman?' 

"Oh,  he  was  a  young  and  strong  man,  and 
learned.  There  was  nothing  the  matter  with  him  as 


26o  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

long  as  he  did  not  drink.  And  Countess  Marta  was 
not  very  particular.  It  amused  her  to  tease  the  rector 
and  curate.  Still  she  ordered  that  no  one  was  to 
speak  of  his  past  life  to  her  children,  for  her  son 
would  have  lost  all  respect  for  him,  and  her  daugh- 
ter could  not  have  endured  him,  for  she  was  a  saint. 

"So  he  came  here  to  Borg.  He  always  remained 
near  the  door,  sat  on  the  extreme  edge  of  his  chair, 
was  silent  at  table,  and  disappeared  into  the  park  as 
soon  as  visitors  arrived. 

"  But  there,  in  the  lonely  paths,  he  used  to  meet 
Ebba  Dohna.  She  was  not  of  those  who  loved  the 
noisy  fetes  that  stormed  through  the  halls  of  Borg 
since  Countess  Marta  had  become  a  widow.  She  was 
not  of  those  who  sent  daring  glances  out  into  the 
world.  She  was  so  shy  and  gentle.  Even  when  she 
was  seventeen,  she  was  but  a  tender  child,  but 
she  was  very  beautiful,  with  her  brown  eyes  and  the 
fair  flush  on  her  cheeks.  Her  thin,  slim  figure  bent 
slightly  forward.  Her  narrow  little  hand  slipped  into 
yours  with  a  shy  pressure.  Her  little  mouth  was  the 
most  silent  of  mouths,  and  the  most  serious.  And 
her  voice — her  sweet,  low  voice,  which  pronounced 
the  words  so  slowly  and  distinctly  —  never  rang  with 
any  healthy  youthfulness  or  warmth,  but  its  tired 
tones  sounded  like  a  wearied  musician's  closing 
chords. 

"  She  was  not  like  other  girls.  Her  feet  trod  the 
earth  so  lightly,  so  silently,  as  if  she  were  but  a 


EBBA  DOHNA'S  STORY  261 

frightened  visitant  here;  and  her  glances  sank  so  as 
not  to  be  disturbed  in  the  view  of  glorious  inner 
visions.  Her  soul  had  turned  from  earth  while  she 
was  but  a  child. 

"  When  a  child,  her  grandmother  used  to  tell  her 
stories,  and  one  evening  they  sat  before  the  fire 
together,  but  the  stories  were  finished.  Carsus  and 
Modems,  and  Lunkentus,  and  The  Beautiful  Melu- 
sina  had  all  lived  before  her.  Like  the  flames,  they 
had  flashed  through  a  brilliant  life,  but  now  the 
heroes  were  all  slain  and  the  beautiful  princess  had 
turned  to  ashes,  till  the  next  blaze  in  the  fireplace 
should  waken  them  to  life  again.  But  the  child's 
hand  still  rested  on  her  grandmother's  dress,  and 
she  softly  stroked  the  silk  —  that  funny  silk  which 
squeaked  like  a  little  bird  when  you  touched  it.  And 
that  movement  was  her  prayer,  for  she  was  one  of 
those  children  who  never  pray  in  words. 

"Then  the  old  lady  began  to  tell  her  gently  of 
a  little  child  who  was  born  in  the  land  of  Judea  — 
a  little  child  who  was  born  to  be  a  great  king.  The 
angels  had  filled  the  world  with  songs  of  praise  when 
he  had  been  born.  The  kings  of  the  East  had  sought 
him,  guided  by  the  star  of  heaven,  and  had  presented 
him  with  gold  and  incense,  and  old  men  and  women 
prophesied  his  glory.  And  the  child  grew  to  greater 
wisdom  and  beauty  than  other  children.  When  only 
twelve  years  old,  his  wisdom  was  greater  than  that 
of  the  high  priest  and  the  scribes. 


262  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

"And  the  old  lady  told  her  of  the  most  beautiful 
thing  the  world  had  ever  seen — of  the  life  of  that 
child  while  he  remained  on  the  earth  among  the 
wicked  people  who  would  not  acknowledge  him 
as  their  king.  She  told  her  how  the  child  became 
a  man,  while  wonderful  miracles  ever  surrounded 
him. 

"  All  on  earth  served  and  loved  him,  all  but  men. 
The  fish  allowed  themselves  to  be  caught  in  his  net, 
bread  filled  his  baskets,  water  turned  to  wine  when 
he  wished  it.  But  men  gave  him  no  golden  crown, 
no  glittering  throne.  There  were  no  courtiers  to  bow 
before  him.  They  allowed  him  to  go  away  and  live 
as  a  beggar. 

"Yet  he  was  so  good  to  them  —  he  healed  their 
sick,  gave  sight  to  the  blind,  and  raised  the  dead. 

" c  But/  said  the  old  lady, c  men  would  not  receive 
him  as  their  lord.  They  sent  their  soldiers  against 
him  and  took  him  prisoner.  They  mocked  him, 
dressing  him  in  a  silken  mantle  and  a  crown  and 
sceptre,  and  made  him  bear  his  heavy  cross  to  the 
place  of  execution. 

"cOh,  my  child!  the  good  king  loved  the  hills. 
At  night  he  used  to  ascend  thither  and  hold  con- 
verse with  the  dwellers  of  the  heavens,  and  he  liked 
to  sit  on  the  side  of  a  mountain  in  the  daytime  and 
talk  to  the  listening  multitude.  But  now  they  led 
him  up  the  mountain  to  crucify  him.  They  drove 
nails  through  his  hands  and  feet,  and  hung  the  good 


EBBA  DOHNA'S  STORY  263 

king  upon  a  cross  as  if  he  had  been  a  robber  and 
a  murderer. 

"{ And  the  people  mocked  him.  Only  his  mother 
and  his  friends  wept  that  he  should  die  before  he 
became  king. 

" c  Oh,  how  the  dead  world  sorrowed  at  his  death ! 

" c  The  sun  lost  its  light,and  the  mountains  shook; 
the  veil  of  the  temple  was  rent,  and  the  graves 
opened  to  allow  the  dead  to  rise  and  show  their  sor- 
row/ 

"The  child  lay  with  her  head  on  the  grandmo- 
ther's knee,  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

"c  Don't  cry,  dear ;  the  good  king  rose  again  and 
went  to  his  father  in  heaven.' 

"'Grandmother,'  she  sobbed,  'did  he  never  re- 
ceive his  kingdom  here?' 

'  He  sits  at  the  right  hand  of  God.' 
But  that  did  not  comfort  her.  She  wept  as  hope- 
lessly and  as  unrestrainedly  as  only  a  child  can  weep. 

"'Why  were  they  so  cruel  to  him?  Why  were 
they  allowed  to  be  so  cruel  to  him?' 

"The  old  lady  was  almost  frightened  at  such 
overwhelming  sorrow. 

"'Say,  grandmother,  that  you  did  not  tell  the 
story  rightly!  Say  that  it  ended  differently,  that  they 
were  not  so  cruel  to  the  good  king,  and  that  he  re- 
ceived his  kingdom  here  on  earth!' 

"She  flung  her  arms  around  her  grandmother, 
tears  still  streaming  from  her  eyes. 


« 

(C 


264  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

"c  Child,  child,'  her  grandmother  said  to  com- 
fort her, c  there  are  people  who  believe  he  will  return. 
The  world  will  then  be  in  his  power,  and  he  will 
rule  it.  It  will  be  a  beautiful  kingdom  and  last  for 
a  thousand  years.  And  the  evil  beasts  shall  become 
good,  and  the  children  shall  play  in  the  adder's 
nest,  and  the  bear  and  the  ox  shall  feed  together. 
Nothing  will  harm  or  destroy,  the  spears  shall  be 
turned  into  scythes,  and  swords  shall  be  forged  into 
ploughshares.  And  all  shall  be  joy  and  gladness, 
for  the  good  shall  inherit  the  earth.' 

"Then  the  child's  face  brightened  beneath  her 
tears. 

"£Will  the  good  king  have  a  throne,  grand- 
mother?' 

c"  A  throne  of  gold.' 

"fAnd  servants  and  courtiers  and  a  golden 
crown?' 

"cYes.' 

cccWill  he  come  soon,  grandmother?' 

"cNo  one  knows  when  he  will  come.' 

"cMay  I  then  sit  on  a  cushion  at  his  feet?' 
cYes,  certainly  you  may.' 
'Grandmother,  I  am  so  happy,'  she  cried. 
Evening  after  evening,  for  many  winters,  those 
two  sat  by  the  fire  and  talked  about  the  good  king 
and  his  kingdom.  The  child  dreamed  of  it  both  day 
and  night,  and  she  never  wearied  of  aggrandizing 
it  in  fancy  with  all  the  beautiful  she  could  imagine. 


cc 
CC 
(C 


EBBA  DOHNA'S  STORY  265 

"It  is  often  the  case  with  the  silent  children  about 
us  that  they  cherish  a  dream  which  they  dare  not 
talk  about.  There  are  wonderful  thoughts  inside 
many  a  head  of  soft  hair;  the  brown  eyes  see  many 
wonderful  visions  behind  their  drooping  eyelids; 
many  a  fair  maid  has  her  bridegroom  in  heaven; 
many  a  rosy  cheek  would  anoint  the  feet  of  the 
good  king  with  precious  ointment,  and  dry  them 
with  her  hair. 

"Ebba  Dohna  dared  not  tell  any  one  about  it, 
but  since  that  evening  she  had  lived  for  the  Lord's 
Millennium  alone,  and  to  await  his  coming. 

"  When  the  evening  sun  lighted  up  the  portals 
of  the  west,  she  wondered  if  he  would  not  appear 
there,  shining  in  quiet  splendor,  followed  by  mil- 
lions of  angels,  and  pass  by  her,  allowing  her  to 
touch  the  hem  of  his  mantle. 

"  She  often  thought,  too,  of  the  pious  women  who 
had  loved  him  as  devotedly  as  she  did,  and  hung 
veils  over  their  heads,  and  never  raised  their  eyes 
from  earth,  but  imprisoned  themselves  in  the  quiet 
of  grey  cloisters  and  the  darkness  of  small  cells  so 
as  to  see  uninterruptedly  the  glorious  visions  that 
rise  from  the  darkness  of  the  soul. 

"Thus  she  had  grown  up,  and  such  was  her  char- 
acter, when  she  and  the  new  tutor  began  to  meet 
in  the  lonely  park.  I  will  speak  no  more  ill  of  him 
than  I  must.  I  try  to  believe  that  he  loved  that  child 
who  chose  him  as  her  companion  in  her  lonely  walks. 


266  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

I  believe  his  soul  again  took  wing  as  he  walked  by 
the  side  of  that  silent  girl,  who  had  never  confided 
in  any  one  before.  I  think  he  felt  himself  like  a  child 
again  too,  good  and  virtuous. 

"But  if  he  loved  her,  why  did  he  not  remember 
that  he  could  give  her  no  worse  gift  than  his  love? 
He,  one  of  the  outcasts  of  the  world,  what  was 
he  doing,  what  was  he  thinking  of,  as  he  walked  by 
the  side  of  the  Count's  daughter?  What  did  he,  the 
discharged  pastor,  feel  when  she  confided  her  reli- 
gious dreams  to  him?  What  was  he,  who  had  been 
a  drunkard  and  brawler,  and  would  be  one  again 
as  soon  as  the  opportunity  offered  —  what  was  he 
doing  by  the  side  of  her  who  dreamed  of  a  bride- 
groom in  heaven  ?  Why  did  he  not  flee,  flee  far  from 
her?  Would  it  not  have  been  better  for  him  to  wan- 
der stealing  and  begging  through  the  country  than 
that  he  should  walk  there  in  the  silent  pine  wood 
and  be  good  and  virtuous  and  devout  again,  when 
his  past  life  could  not  be  lived  over  again,  and  it 
was  unavoidable  that  Ebba  Dohna  should  learn  to 
love  him? 

"You  are  not  to  think  he  looked  a  miserable 
drunkard  with  ashy  cheeks  and  red  eyes.  He  was 
ever  a  stately  man,  beautiful  and  strong  in  body  and 
soul.  He  bore  himself  like  a  king,  and  had  an  iron 
constitution  which  was  not  impaired  by  the  wildest 
life." 

"Is  he  still  alive?"  asked  the  Countess. 


cc 


EBBA  DOHNA'S  STORY  267 

Oh,  no,  he  must  be  dead  now.  It  is  all  so  long 
ago. 

There  was  something  within  Anna  Stjarnhok 
that  trembled  at  what  she  was  doing.  She  began  to 
think  she  would  never  tell  the  Countess  who  the 
man  was,  that  she  would  let  her  believe  him  dead. 

"At  that  time  he  was  still  young,"  she  continued 
her  story;  "the  joy  of  life  awoke  again  within  him. 
He  had  the  gift  of  speech  and  a  fiery,  inflammable 
heart.  There  came  an  evening  when  he  spoke  to 
her  of  love.  She  did  not  answer  him,  but  told  him 
of  what  her  grandmother  had  described  to  her  in 
the  winter  evenings  and  of  the  land  of  her  dreams. 
Afterwards  she  made  him  promise,  made  him  swear, 
that  he  would  be  one  of  God's  preachers,  one  of 
those  who  would  prepare  the  way  for  him,  that  his 
coming  might  be  hastened. 

"What  could  he  do?  He  was  a  discharged  cler- 
gyman, and  no  path  was  so  impossible  for  him  as  the 
one  she  had  wished  him  to  tread.  But  he  dared  not 
tell  her  the  truth:  he  had  not  the  heart  to  distress 
the  sweet  child  he  loved.  He  promised  all  she  asked. 

"  Not  many  words  between  them  were  required 
after  that.  It  was  clear  that  she  would  one  day  be  his 
wife.  It  was  not  a  love  of  kisses  and  caresses.  He 
hardly  dared  approach  her  closely;  she  was  as  sen- 
sitive as  a  fragile  flower;  but  her  brown  eyes  were 
raised  from  the  ground  sometimes  in  search  of  his. 
On  moonlight  nights,  when  they  sat  upon  the  ve- 


268  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

randa,  she  used  to  creep  close  to  him,  and  he  kissed 
her  hair  without  her  noticing  it. 

"  But,  you  understand,  his  sin  lay  in  his  forget- 
fulness  of  both  past  and  future.  That  he  was  poor 
and  had  no  position  in  life,  he  might  easily  forget; 
but  he  ought  to  have  remembered  that  the  day 
would  surely  come  when  love  would  rise  against 
love  in  her  mind,  earth  against  heaven,  and  when 
she  must  choose  between  him  and  the  glorious  Lord 
of  her  dreams.  And  she  was  not  one  of  those  who 
could  survive  such  a  strife. 

"So  passed  the  summer,  the  autumn,  and  winter. 
When  spring  came,  and  the  ice  in  the  Lofven  broke 
up,  Ebba  Dohna  lay  sick.  The  springs  were  melt- 
ing in  the  valleys,  the  brooks  were  swelling,  the  ice 
on  the  lakes  was  insecure,  roads  were  impassable 
both  for  sledges  and  wheeled  vehicles.  Countess 
Dohna  wanted  a  doctor  from  Karlstad  —  there  was 
no  one  nearer — but  she  commanded  in  vain.  Nei- 
ther threats  nor  prayers  could  induce  any  of  the  ser- 
vants to  go  for  him.  She  begged  the  coachman  on 
her  knees,  but  he  refused.  She  had  cramp  and  hys- 
terics, she  was  so  alarmed  over  her  daughter.  She 
was  as  uncontrolled  in  sorrow  as  in  joy  was  Count- 
ess Marta. 

"Ebba  Dohna  had  inflammation  of  the  lungs, 
and  her  life  was  in  danger,  but  there  was  no  doctor 
to  be  had. 

"  Then  the  tutor  rode  to  Karlstad.  To  cross  the 


EBBA  DOHNA'S  STORY  269 

country  when  the  roads  were  in  such  a  state  was 
to  venture  his  life,  but  he  did  it.  He  crossed  the 
lakes  on  swaying  ice,  and  climbed  neck-breaking 
heaps  of  it,  where  it  was  stacked;  he  was  obliged 
sometimes  to  cut  steps  for  his  horse  in  the  high 
blocks,  sometimes  he  dragged  it  out  of  the  deep 
mire  of  the  road.  They  said  the  doctor  refused  to 
accompany  him,  but  that  he  forced  him  to  do  so  at 
the  point  of  his  pistol. 

"  When  he  came  back,  the  Countess  was  ready 
to  cast  herself  at  his  feet.  'Take  everything/  she 
cried, c  take  what  you  will  —  my  daughter,  my  land, 
or  my  money!' 

"cYour  daughter/  said  the  tutor." 

Anna  Stjarnhok  suddenly  became  silent. 

"Well,  and  afterwards — and  afterwards? "  asked 
the  Countess. 

"That  is  enough,"  answered  Anna,  for  she  was 
one  of  those  miserable  people  who  are  always  in 
fear  and  doubt.  She  had  been  in  doubt  all  the  week. 
She  did  not  know  what  she  wanted.  That  which 
seemed  right  to  her  one  moment  seemed  wrong  the 
next.  Now  she  wished  she  had  never  begun  this 
story. 

j 

"I  begin  to  believe  you  are  mocking  me,  Anna. 
Don't  you  understand  I  must  hear  the  end?' 

"There  isn't  much  more  to  say.  The  hour  of 
strife  had  come  to  Ebba  Dohna,  love  rose  against 
love,  earth  against  heaven.  .  .  . 


270  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

cc  Countess  Marta  told  her  daughter  of  the  won- 
derful journey  the  young  man  had  made  for  her 
sake,  and  that  as  a  reward  she  had  given  him  her 
hand. 

"Ebba  Dohna  was  so  far  convalescent  that  she 
lay  dressed  upon  the  sofa.  She  was  tired  and  pale 
and  even  more  silent  than  usual.  When  she  heard 
these  words,  she  lifted  her  reproachful,  mournful 
brown  eyes  to  her  mother  and  said, c  Mamma,  have 
you  given  me  to  a  discharged  clergyman,  to  one 
who  has  forfeited  his  right  to  be  God's  servant,  to 
a  man  who  has  been  a  beggar  and  -a  thief? ' 

"'But,  child,  who  has  told  you  this?  I  thought 
you  knew  nothing  about  it!' 

'"I  heard  it — I  heard  your  visitors  talking  about 
it  the  day  I  fell  ill.' 

"'But  remember,  Ebba,  he  saved  your  life.' 

"CI  remember  that  he  has  deceived  me.  He 
should  have  told  me  who  he  was/ 

'"He  says  you  love  him/ 

"CI  have  done  so.  I  cannot  love  him  who  has 
deceived  me/ 

"cln  what  way  has  he  deceived  you?' 

"'You  would  not  understand,  mamma/ 

"She  did  not  care  to  talk  to  her  mother  about 
the  Millennium  of  her  dreams  which  her  lover  was 
to  help  her  to  realize. 

"'Ebba/  said  her  mother,  'if  you  love  him,  you 
must  not  think  of  what  he  has  been,  but  marry  him. 


cc 
cc 


EBBA  DOHNA'S  STORY  271 

The  husband  of  Countess  Dohnawill  be  sufficiently 
rich  and  sufficiently  powerful  for  his  youthful  sins 
to  be  forgiven  him.' 

" '  I  am  not  thinking  of  his  youthful  sins,  mamma. 
It  is  because  he  has  deceived  me  and  can  never  be 
what  I  wished  him  to  be  that  I  will  not  marry  him.' 
cEbba,  remember  I  have  given  my  word.1 
The  girl  became  deadly  pale. 

"c  Mamma,  I  tell  you,  if  you  make  me  marry 
him,  you  part  me  from  God.' 

"f  I  am  determined  to  make  you  happy,'  said  her 
mother,  'and  I  am  sure  you  will  be  happy  with  this 
man.  You  have  already  made  a  saint  of  him.  I  have 
determined  to  put  aside  the  usual  requirements  of 
our  station,  and  to  forget  that  he  is  poor  and  de- 
spised, to  give  you  the  opportunity  of  raising  him. 
I  feel  I  am  doing  what  is  right.  You  know  how  I 
despise  all  old  conventionalities.' 

"But  she  said  this  because  she  could  not  endure 
any  one  to  contradict  her.  Perhaps,  too,  she  meant 
it  when  she  said  it.  Countess  Marta  was  not  easy 
to  understand. 

"Ebba  lay  quietly  on  her  sofa  for  a  long  time 
after  her  mother  left  her.  She  fought  her  fight. 
Earth  rose  against  heaven,  love  against  love;  but 
the  love  of  her  childhood  won  the  battle.  As  she 
lay  there  on  that  very  sofa,  she  saw  the  west  flush 
into  a  glorious  sunset.  She  felt  it  was  a  greeting  from 
the  good  king,  and  as  she  was  not  strong  enough  to 


272  COST  A  BERLING'S  SAGA 

be  true  to  him  if  she  lived,  she  determined  to  die. 
She  could  do  nothing  else  when  her  mother  wished 
her  to  be  the  wife  of  one  who  could  not  be  a  ser- 
vant of  the  king.  She  went  to  the  window,  opened 
it,  and  let  the  cold,  damp  evening  again  envelop  her 
poor,  feeble  little  body. 

"  It  was  easy  for  her  to  bring  about  her  death. 
It  was  certain  she  would  have  a  relapse,  and  she  did. 

"No  one  but  I  knew  that  she  had  sought  her 
death.  I  found  her  at  the  window.  I  heard  her  rav- 
ings in  her  fever.  She  liked  me  to  remain  by  her 
side  during  her  last  days. 

"It  was  I  who  saw  her  die,  who  saw  her,  one 
evening,  stretch  out  her  arms  to  the  glowing  west, 
and  die,  smiling,  as  if  she  had  seen  some  one  step 
out  from  the  sunset  radiance  to  meet  her.  I  also  was 
to  carry  her  last  greeting  to  the  man  she  had  loved. 
I  was  to  ask  him  to  forgive  her  that  she  could  not 
be  his  wife.  The  good  king  would  not  allow  it. 

"  But  I  have  not  dared  to  tell  the  man  he  was 
her  murderer.  I  have  not  dared  to  lay  the  burden  of 
such  sorrow  upon  him.  And  yet,  he  that  lied  and 
won  her  love  was  he  not  her  murderer  ?  Was  he  not, 
Elizabeth?" 

Countess  Dohna  had  long  since  ceased  caressing 
the  blue  anemones.  Now  she  stood  up,  and  the 
bouquet  fell  to  the  ground. 

"Anna,  you  are  still  mocking  me.  You  say  the 


EBBA  DOHNA'S  STORY  273 

story  is  old,  and  that  the  man  is  dead  long  ago. 
But  I  know  it  is  hardly  five  years  since  Ebba  Dohna 
died,  and  you  say  you  were  a  witness  to  it  all.  You 
are  not  old.  Tell  me  who  the  man  is.11 

Anna  Stjarnhok  began  to  laugh. 

"You  wanted  a  love  story,  and  you  have  had 
one  which  has  cost  you  both  tears  and  distress." 

"Do  you  mean  that  it  is  not  true?* 

"It  is  nothing  but  lies  and  fancy,  my  dear." 

"You  are  malicious,  Anna." 

"Perhaps  —  I  am  not  too  happy.  I  can  tell  you 
—  but  the  old  ladies  have  wakened,  and  the  gen- 
tlemen are  entering  the  drawing-room — let  us  join 
them." 

She  was  arrested  on  the  threshold  by  Gosta  Ber- 
ling,  who  had  come  in  search  of  the  young  ladies. 

"You  must  have  patience  with  me,"  he  said, 
laughingly;  "  I  am  only  going  to  annoy  you  for  ten 
minutes,  but  you  must  hear  some  poetry." 

He  told  them  that  he  had  dreamed  that  night 
more  vividly  than  usual — dreamed  that  he  wrote 
poetry.  And  he — the  so-called  "poet,"  though  he 
had  borne  the  name  innocently  hitherto  —  had  got 
up  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and,  half  asleep, 
half  awake,  had  begun  to  write.  And  he  had  found 
quite  a  long  poem  on  his  writing-table  in  the  morn- 
ing. He  never  could  have  believed  it  of  himself. 
The  ladies  must  hear  it,  and  he  read: 


274  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

"  Now  rose  the  moon,  and  with  it  came  the  day's  most  lovely  hour, 
And  from  the  clear,  pale,  lofty  dome,  she  poured  her  shimmer 
down 

On  the  veranda  wreathed  in  lovely  flowers; 

While  at  our  feet  the  lily  spread 

Its  scent,  its  chalice  tipped  with  gold; 

And  on  the  hard,  broad  stairway  there 

We  grouped  together,  young  and  old, 
Silent  at  first,  and  let  our  feelings  sing 
Our  hearts*  old  songs  in  that  most  lovely  hour. 

I 

u  From  the  mignonette  bed  a  lovely  scent  was  all  around  diffused, 
And  from  the  dark  and  gloomy  tangle  of  the  undergrowth 

The  shadows  crept  over  the  dewy  plot. 

Our  spirits,  freed,  now  flew  on  high 

To  regions  which  they  scarce  could  reach, 

To  the  pale  blue  shining  dome  on  high, 

Whose  brightness  scarce  revealed  a  star. 
Ah!  who  could  flee  a  throbbing  of  the  heart 
When  shadows  sport  and  mignonette  perfumes  the  air. 

"A  Provence  rose  shed  silently  its  last,  pale,  fading  leaves, 
And  yet  no  sportive  breeze  had  claimed  the  sacrifice. 
So,  thought  we,  would  we  give  our  life, 
Vanish  in  air  like  a  dying  tone, 
Like  autumn  s  yellow  leaves,  without  a  sigh. 
Oh!  ye  strain  at  the  length  of  our  years,  disturb 
Thus  Nature' s  peace  —  to  grasp  a  vision. 
Death  is  Life's  wage,  so  may  we  pass  in  peace 
As  a  Provence  rose  sheds  silently  its  last  pale  leaves. 


EBBA  DOHNA'S  STORY  275 

"On  quivering  wing  a  lonely  bat  flew  swift  and  noiseless  by. 
Passed  and  repassed,and  was  ever  seen  where* er  the  moonlight 
And  in  the  downcast  hearts  it  raised  \fe^y 

The  question  never  answered  yet — 
Deep  as  sorrow — old  as  pain — 
4  Oh,  whither  go  ye,  what  paths  shall  ye  tread 
When  the  verdant  paths  of  the  earth  ye  leave? 
Can  ye  point  the  spirit's  path  to  another?'  —  No, 
'T 'were  easier  to  guide  the  bat  which  flutter  eth  by  just  now. 

"  On  my  shoulder,  then,  my  darling  leaned  her  head,  her  soft, 

sweet  hair, 
And  softly  she  did  whisper  to  him  whom  she  thus  loved — 

4  Ne'er  dream  my  soul  will  flee  from  thee 

To  distant  spheres  when  I  am  dead ; 

My  homeless  spirit  will  find  its  way 

To  thee,  oh,  love !  and  dwell  in  thee.' 

What  pain  !  My  heart  was  nigh  to  break. 
Would  she  then  die?  Was  this  night  then  her  last? 
Was  this  my  parting  kiss  upon  my  darling 's  face? 

44  Now  many  years  have  passed  since  then  —  I  sit  again  and  oft 
In  that  old  favorite  place  of  mine,  when  nights  are  dark  and 

still; 
But  I  shrink  from  the  moon  —  she  knows  how  oft 

On  the  veranda  I  have  kissed  my  love. 

Her  shimmering  light  she  used  to  blend 

With  the  tears  I  shed  on  my  darling's  hair. 

Oh,  the  woe  of  memory !  It  is  my  curse. 
My  soul  is  the  home  of  hers !  What  doom  can  he  await 
Who  has  bound  to  his  a  soul  so  pure  and  fair  T 


276  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

"  Gosta,"  said  Anna,  in  a  would-be  laughing  tone, 
though  fear  clutched  at  her  throat,  "they  say  that 
you  have  lived  through  more  poems  than  have  ever 
been  written  by  those  who  do  nothing  else  all  their 
lives ;  but  I  advise  you  to  keep  to  your  own  style  of 
poem. Those  verses  are  clearly  a  night  production." 

"You  are  cutting,  Anna." 

"To  come  and  read  to  us  about  death  and  mis- 
ery! Aren't  you  ashamed?' 

But  Gosta  was  not  paying  further  attention  to 
her,  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  young  Countess. 
She  sat  quite  motionless,  immovable  as  a  statue.  He 
thought  she  was  going  to  faint. 

But  with  much  trouble  a  word  passed  her  lips. 

"Go!"  she  said. 

"Who  is  to  go?  Is  it  I?" 

"The  parson  must  go,"  she  ejaculated. 

"Elizabeth,  do  be  silent!" 

"The  drunken  parson  must  leave  my  house!' 

"Anna,  Anna,"  cried  Gosta,  "what  does  she 
mean?' 

"Go  away,  Gosta;  it  is  best  you  should  go." 

"Why  should  I  go?  What  is  the  meaning  of 
this?" 

"Anna,"  said  the  Countess,  "tell  him — tell 
him  ... 

"No,  Countess,  you  must  tell  him  yourself." 

The  Countess  Elizabeth  bit  her  teeth  together 
and  mastered  her  feeling. 


EBBA  DOHNA'S  STORY  277 

"  Herr  Berling,"  she  said, approaching  him, "you 
have  a  wonderful  faculty  for  maJcing  people  forget 
who  you  are.  I  have  not  heard  till  to-day.  I  have 
just  been  told  the  story  of  Ebba  Dohna's  death, 
and  that  it  was  the  knowledge  that  the  man  she 
loved  was  unworthy  of  her  love  which  caused  her 
death.  Your  poem  has  shown  me  that  you  are  the 
man.  I  cannot  understand  how  a  man  with  a  past 
such  as  yours  dares  to  show  himself  in  the  society 
of  a  decent  woman.  I  cannot  understand  it,  Herr 
Berling.  Is  my  meaning  sufficiently  clear?' 

"It  is,  Countess.  I  will  only  say  one  word  in  de- 
fence. I  was  convinced — I  have  been  convinced 
all  the  time  that  you  knew  all  about  me.  I  have 
never  tried  to  hide  anything,  but  there  is  no  plea- 
sure in  shouting  out  one's  bitterest  griefs  from  the 
housetops — least  of  all  to  do  it  one's  self." 

And  he  left  them. 

At  the  same  moment  Countess  Dohna  set  her 
foot  upon  the  little  bouquet  of  blue  anemones. 

"You  have  done  what  I  desired,"  said  Anna 
Stjarnhok  to  her  in  a  hard  voice;  "but  this  is  the 
end  of  our  friendship.  You  need  not  think  I  will 
forgive  you  for  having  been  cruel  to  him.  You  have 
dismissed  him,  scorned  and  hurt  him,  and  I  —  I 
would  follow  him  to  prison,  to  the  pillory  if  need 
be.  I  will  guard  and  defend  him.  You  have  done 
what  I  desired,  but  I  shall  never  forgive  you." 

"But,  Anna,  Anna!" 


278  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

"If  I  told  you  that  story,  do  you  think  I  did  it 
with  a  glad  heart?  Have  I  not  been  tearing  my  heart 
out  bit  by  bit  while  sitting  here?' 

"Then,  why  did  you  do  it?' 

"Why?  Because — because  I  did  not  wish  him 
to  be  the  lover  of  a  married  woman. 


ZMamtelle  Marie 

OH  ARK,  hark!  There  is  a  buzzing  over  my 
head.  It  must  be  a  bumblebee  that  comes  fly- 
ing. And  what  a  fragrance !  As  true  as  I  live,  it  is 
boy's-love  and  sweet  lavender  and  hawthorne  and 
lilac  and  white  narcissus.  How  delightful  to  have  all 
this  steal  in  upon  you  on  a  grey  autumn  evening 
in  the  midst  of  the  town.  I  have  only  to  think  of 
that  precious  little  corner  of  the  earth,  and  imme- 
diately I  hear  the  hum  of  tiny  wings  and  the  air 
about  me  is  filled  with  sweet  perfumes.  In  a  twink- 
ling I  am  transported  into  a  little  square  rose-gar- 
den, full  of  flowers,  protected  by  a  privet-hedge. 
In  the  corners  are  lilac  bowers  with  wooden  seats, 
and  between  the  flower  beds,  which  are  formed  in 
the  shape  of  hearts  and  stars,  wind  narrow  paths, 
strewn  with  white  sea-sand.  On  three  sides  of  this 
rose-garden  are  woods.  Semi-wild  rowan  and  hag- 
berry  trees  stand  nearest  it,  their  scents  blending 
with  the  perfume  of  the  lilacs.  Beyond  are  some 
clusters  of  silver-stemmed  birches,  which  lead  to 
the  spruce  forest  —  the  real  forest,  dark  and  silent; 
bearded  and  prickly.  And  on  the  fourth  side  stands 
a  little  grey  cottage. 

The  rose-garden  of  which  I  am  thinking  was 
owned  some  sixty  years  ago  by  an  old  Fru  Moreus 
of  Svartsjo,  who  earned  her  living  making  quilts 


280  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

for  the  peasants  and  cooking  the  food  for  their 
feasts. 

Dear  friends,  of  the  many  good  things  that  I 
wish  for  you,  above  all  I  would  name  a  rose-gar- 
den and  a  quilting-frame  —  a  great,  wobbly,  old- 
fashioned  quilting-frame,  with  worn  screw-taps  and 
chipped  rollers,  at  which  five  or  six  persons  can 
work  at  the  same  time  and  hold  a  stitching  con- 
test, where  all  hands  vie  with  each  other  to  pro- 
duce neat  stitches  on  the  under-side;  where  one 
munches  roasted  apples,  and  chatters,  and  "jour- 
neys to  Greenland  to  hide  the  ring,"  and  laughs 
till  the  squirrels  out  in  the  wood  tumble  headlong 
to  the  ground  from  fright.  A  quilting-frame  for 
winter  and  for  summer  a  rose-garden.  Not  a  gar- 
den on  which  one  must  lay  out  more  money  than 
the  pleasure  is  worth,  but  a  rose-garden  such  as 
they  had  in  the  old  days,  the  kind  you  tend  with 
your  own  hands ;  with  little  brier  trees  crowning 
the  brow  of  the  small  hillocks  and  wreaths  of  for- 
get-me-nots encircling  the  foot,  and  where  the  big 
floppy  poppy,  which  sows  itself,  springs  up  every- 
where on  the  grassy  borders,  and  even  in  the  sand- 
path  ;  also  there  should  be  a  sunTbrowned  moss  sofa, 
overgrown  with  columbine  and  crown  imperials. 

OldFru  Moreus,who  had  three  lively  andindus- 
trious  daughters,  was  in  her  day  the  proud  possessor 
of  many  things.  She  owned  a  little  cottage  near  the 
roadside,  had  a  nest-egg  tucked  away  at  the  bot- 


MAMSELLE  MARIE  281 

torn  of  an  old  chest,  had  stiff  silk  shawls  and  straight- 
backed  armchairs,  and  besides,  she  had  learned  to 
do  any  number  of  things  that  are  useful  to  know 
for  one  who  must  earn  her  own  bread.  But  the 
quilting-frame,  which  brought  her  work  the  year 
round,  and  the  rose-garden,  which  gave  her  joy  the 
whole  summer  long,  were  to  her  the  best  of  all. 

In  Fru  Moreus's  cottage  was  a  lodger,  a  little 
weazened  spinster  about  forty  years  of  age,  who  oc- 
cupied a  gable-room  in  the  attic.  Mamselle  Marie, 
as  she  was  called,  held  views  of  her  own  about  many 
things,  as  is  apt  to  be  the  case  with  those  who  sit 
much  alone  and  let  their  thoughts  dwell  on  what 
their  eyes  have  seen. 

Now  Mamselle  Marie  believed  that  love  was 
the  root  of  all  the  evil  in  this  mundane  world.  Every 
night  before  going  to  sleep,  she  would  fold  her  hands 
and  say  her  evening  prayers.  When  she  had  said 
"Our  Father"  and  "Lord  bless  us,"  she  always 
prayed  God  to  preserve  her  from  love. 

"It  could  only  end  in  misery,"  she  would  say, 
"for  I  am  old  and  homely  and  poor.  May  I  be 
spared  from  falling  in  love!' 

Day  after  day  she  sat  in  her  attic  chamber,  knit- 
ting curtains  and  table-covers  in  shelUstitch,  which 
she  sold  to  the  gentry  and  the  peasants.  She  was 
knitting  together  a  little  cottage  of  her  own.  A  cot 
on  the  hillside  opposite  Svartsjo  Church  was  what 
she  wanted — a  cottage  on  high  ground  from  which 


282  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

one  could  have  a  fine  open  view,  that  was  her  dream. 
But  of  love  she  would  have  none. 

When  on  a  summer  evening  she  heard  the  sound 
of  violin  music  from  the  crossroads,  where  the  fid- 
dler sat  on  a  stile,  and  the  young  folks  danced  till 
the  dust  whirled  about  them,  she  would  go  a  long 
way  around  through  the  wood  to  escape  hearing  and 
seeing. 

The  day  after  Christmas,  when  the  peasant  brides 
came  to  be  dressed  by  Fru  Moreus  and  her  daugh- 
ters, while  they  were  being  adorned  with  wreaths  of 
myrtle  and  high  satin  crowns  broidered  with  glass 
beads,  with  gorgeous  silk  sashes  and  breast  bou- 
quets of  hand-made  roses  and  skirts  garlanded  with 
taffeta  flowers,  she  kept  to  her  room  so  as  not  to  see 
them  decked  out  in  Love's  honor. 

And  when  on  winter  evenings  the  Moreus  girls 
sat  at  the  quilting-frame  in  the  cosy  living-room, 
where  a  fire  crackled  on  the  hearth  and  the  glass- 
apples  swung  and  sweated  before  the  blaze;  when 
handsome  Gosta  Berling  and  the  good  Ferdinand, 
dropping  in  for  a  visit,  would  pull  the  thread  out  of 
the  needles  and  fool  the  girls  into  making  crooked 
stitches,  the  walls  fairly  ringing  with  the  merry  chat- 
ter and  the  love-making,  as  hands  met  hands  under 
the  quilting-frame  —  then,  vexed,  she  would  hur- 
riedly gather  up  her  knitting  and  quit  the  room. 
For  she  hated  lovers  and  the  ways  of  Love. 

But  Love's  misdeeds  she  knew,  and  of  these  she 


MAMSELLE  MARIE  283 

could  tell!  She  wondered  that  Amor  still  dared 
show  himself  on  this  earth,  that  he  was  not  fright- 
ened away  by  the  wails  of  the  forsaken,  by  the  curses 
of  those  whom  he  had  turned  into  criminals,  by  the 
lamentations  of  others  whom  he  had  cast  into  hate- 
ful bondage,  and  she  marvelled  that  his  wings  could 
bear  him  so  lightly,  that  he  did  not  fall  into  the 
abyss  of  oblivion,  weighed  down  by  shame  and 
remorse. 

To  be  sure,  she,  like  others,  had  once  been  young, 
but  she  had  never  been  in  love  with  Love.  Never 
had  she  let  herself  be  tempted  to  dance  or  to  take 
or  give  a  caress.  Her  mother's  guitar  hung  in  the 
attic,  dusty  and  unstrung,  but  Mamselle  Marie 
had  never  thrummed  inane  love-ditties  on  it.  Her 
mother's  potted  rose-tree  stood  in  the  window; 
she  watered  it,  that  was  all,  for  she  was  not  fond  of 
flowers,  those  children  of  love.  Its  leaves  sagged 
with  dust,  spiders  spun  webs  between  the  stems, 
and  the  buds  never  opened. 

In  Fru  Moreus's  rose-garden,  where  butterflies 
fluttered  and  birds  sang,  where  fragrant  blossoms 
wafted  their  love  messages  to  circling  bees  —  where 
everything  spoke  of  the  detestable  Amor — she  sel- 
dom set  foot. 

Then  there  came  a  time  when  the  Svartsjo  folk 
had  an  organ  put  into  their  church.  A  young  organ- 
builder  arrived  in  the  parish,  and  he  too  became  a 
lodger  at  Fru  Moreus's  cottage. 


284  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

It  was  he  who  built  in  the  organ  which  has  such 
extraordinary  tones,  whose  thundering  bass  some- 
times bursts  forth  in  the  middle  of  a  peaceful  an- 
them — how  or  why,  none  can  say — and  sets  all  the 
children  howling  in  church  at  Christmas  matins. 

That  the  young  organ-builder  was  a  master  of 
his  craft  may  well  be  doubted,  but  he  was  a  bonny 
fellow  with  sunshine  in  his  eyes.  He  had  a  pleasant 
word  for  every  one, —  for  rich  and  poor,  old  and 
young. 

When  he  came  home  from  his  work  in  the  even- 
ing, he  would  hold  Fru  Moreus's  skein,  dig  side 
by  side  with  the  young  girls  in  the  rose-garden, 
declaim  Axel  and  sing  Frithiof,  and  he  picked  up 
Mamselle  Marie's  ball  of  thread  as  often  as  she  let 
it  drop,  and  even  set  her  clock  going. 

He  never  came  away  from  a  ball  without  having 
danced  with  every  woman  there,  from  the  oldest 
matron  to  the  youngest  slip  of  a  girl,  and  when 
some  adversity  befell  him,  he  would  sit  down  beside 
the  first  woman  he  chanced  to  meet  and  make  her 
his  confidant.  He  was  the  manner  of  man  women 
create  in  their  dreams.  It  cannot  be  said  that  he 
spoke  to  any  one  of  love,  but  he  had  not  been  many 
weeks  at  Fru  Moreus's  before  all  the  girls  were  in 
love  with  him.  As  for  poor  Mamselle  Marie,  she 
had  prayed  her  prayers  in  vain. 

That  was  a  time  of  sorrow  and  a  time  of  joy. 
Tears  rained  on  the  quil ting-frame,  blotting  out  the 


MAMSELLE  MARIE  285 

chalk  lines.  Evenings,  a  pale  dreamer  often  sat  in 
the  lilac  bower,  and  up  in  Mamselle  Marie's  little 
room  the  newly  strung  guitar  twanged  to  old  love 
songs,  which  Marie  had  learned  from  her  mother. 

The  young  organ-builder  meanwhile  went  about, 
happy  and  care-free,  lavishing  his  smiles  and  atten- 
tions upon  these  languishing  women,  who  quar- 
relled over  him  while  he  was  away  at  his  work. 
Then,  at  last,  came  the  day  when  he  must  depart. 

The  conveyance  was  at  the  door,  the  luggage  had 
been  tied  on  behind,  and  the  young  man  said  fare- 
well. He  kissed  Fru  Moreus  on  the  hand,  gathered 
the  weeping  girls  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  them  on 
the  cheek.  Hewept  himself  at  having  to  leave  there, 
for  he  had  passed  a  pleasant  summer  in  the  little 
grey  cottage.  At  the  very  last  he  looked  around  for 
Mamselle  Marie. 

She  came  down  the  old  attic  stairs  in  her  best 
array,  the  guitar  strung  round  her  neck  on  a  broad, 
green  silk  ribbon,  a  bouquet  of "  moon-roses  "  in  her 
hand;  for  that  summer  her  mother's  rose-tree  had 
bloomed.  She  stood  before  the  young  man,  struck 
her  guitar,  and  sang: 

"Thou  *rt  going  far  from  us.  Ah ,-  come  back  again! 

*  T  is  friendship*  s  voice  that  entreats  thee. 
Be  happy,  forget  not  a  true,  loving  heart, 

Which  in  V'drmelancfs  valleys  awaits  thee" 

Whereupon  she  put  the  nosegay  in  his  buttonhole 


286  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

and  kissed  him  square  on  the  mouth;  then  she  van- 
ished up  the  attic  stairs  like  an  apparition. 

Amor  had  taken  revenge  on  her  and  made  her 
a  spectacle  for  all  men.  But  she  never  again  com- 
plained of  him,  never  again  put  away  the  guitar,  and 
never,  never  forgot  to  care  for  her  mother's  rose- 
tree. 

"  Better  unhappiness  with  Love  than  happiness 
without  him,"  she  thought. 


Time  passed.  The  Major's  wife  had  been  driven  out 
of  Ekeby,  and  the  cavaliers  had  come  into  power. 
Thus  it  happened,  as  related,  that  Gosta  Berling, 
one  Sunday  evening,  read  a  poem  to  the  Countess  at 
Borg,  after  which  he  was  ordered  out  of  the  house 
and  told  never  to  enter  it  again. 

'T  is  said  that  when  Gosta  shut  the  hall  door  after 
him,  he  saw  several  sledges  drive  up  to  Borg,  and 
cast  a  furtive  glance  at  the  little  lady  seated  in  the 
first  sledge.  Dark  as  that  hour  had  been  for  him, 
it  became  darker  still  at  sight  of  her.  He  hastened 
away,  lest  he  be  recognized.  Forebodings  of  disaster 
filled  his  mind.  Had  the  conversation  inside  called 
up  this  woman?  One  misfortune  always  brings  an- 
other. 

Servants  came  hurrying  out,  carriage  aprons  were 
unbuttoned,  and  pelts  thrown  to  one  side.  Who  had 
come?  Who  was  the  little  lady  that  stood  up  in 


MAMSELLE  MARIE  287 

the  sledge?  Ah,  it  was  actually  she  herself,  Marta 
Dohna,  the  celebrated  Countess! 

She  was  the  gayest  and  maddest  of  women.  A 
pleasure-loving  world  had  placed  her  on  a  throne 
and  crowned  her  its  queen.  Play  and  Laughter  were 
her  subjects,  and  in  the  lottery  of  life  she  had  drawn 
music,  dancing,  and  adventure. 

Though  now  close  on  to  fifty,  she  was  one  of  the 
wise,  who  do  not  count  the  years.  "  He  who  cannot 
lift  his  foot  to  dance,"  she  said,  "nor  open  his 
mouth  to  laughter,  he  is  old;  he  feels  the  atrocious 
burden  of  years,  but  not  I." 

King  Pleasure  did  not  reign  undisturbed  in  the 
days  of  her  youth,  but  change  and  uncertainty  only 
increased  the  delight  of  his  charming  presence.  His 
Majesty  of  the  butterfly  wings  had  tea  one  day  in 
the  rooms  of  the  ladies-in-waiting  at  the  palace  in 
Stockholm, and  danced  the  next  in  Paris.  He  visited 
Napoleon's  camps,  sailed  the  blue  Mediterranean 
with  Nelson's  fleet,  attended  a  congress  in  Vienna, 
and  risked  going  to  Brussels  on  the  eve  of  a  famous 
battle  to  attend  a  ball. 

And  where  King  Pleasure  was,  there  too  was 
Marta  Dohna,  his  chosen  queen.  Dancing,  playing, 
jesting,  Countess  Marta  flitted  the  whole  world 
round.  What  had  she  not  seen,  what  lived!  She 
had  danced  thrones  down,  played  ecart'e  for  prin- 
cipalities, caused  devastating  wars  with  her  banter. 
Merriment  and  folly  had  been  her  life,  and  would 


288  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

be  always.  Her  feet  were  not  too  old  for  dancing, 
nor  her  heart  for  love.  When  did  she  ever  weary 
of  masquerades  and  comedies,  of  droll  tales  and 
plaintive  ballads? 

When  Pleasure  betimes  was  homeless  in  the  great 
world  converted  into  a  battlefield,  she  would  take 
refuge  for  a  longer  or  shorter  period  at  the  Count's 
old  manor  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Lofven,  as  in 
the  time  of  the  Holy  Alliance,  when  the  princes 
and  their  courts  had  become  too  dull  for  her  lady- 
ship. It  was  during  one  of  these  visits  that  she  had 
thought  it  well  to  make  Gosta  Berling  her  son's 
tutor.  She  always  enjoyed  her  stay  at  Borg.  Never 
had  Pleasure  a  more  ideal  kingdom,  with  gay,  beau- 
tiful women  and  adventure-loving  men.  There  was 
no  lack  of  feasts  and  balls,  of  boating-parties  on 
moonlit  lakes,  nor  sleighing-parties  through  dark 
forests,  nor  thrilling  heart-experiences. 

But  after  her  daughter's  death  the  Countess  had 
ceased  coming.  She  had  not  visited  Borg  in  five 
years.  Now  she  came  to  see  how  her  daughter-in-law 
bore  the  life  among  the  pines,  the  bears,  and  the 
snows.  She  deemed  it  her  duty  to  find  out  whether 
the  tiresome  Henrik  had  quite  bored  her  to  death 
with  his  stupidities,  and  she  meant  to  play  the  gentle 
angel  of  domesticity.  Sunshine  and  happiness  were 
packed  in  her  forty  leather  portmanteaux,  Mirth 
was  her  handmaiden,  Play  her  companion,  Banter 
her  charioteer. 


MAMSELLE  iMARIE  289 

As  she  tripped  up  the  steps,  she  was  met  with 
open  arms.  Her  old  rooms  had  been  put  in  order. 
Her  companion,  her  maid,  her  footman,  her  forty 
leather  portmanteaux  and  her  thirty  hat-boxes,  her 
dressing-rolls,  her  shawls,  and  her  furs  were  by  de- 
grees brought  into  the  house.  There  was  bustle  and 
excitement  from  cellar  to  attic,  a  slamming  of  doors 
and  a  running  on  the  stairs.  It  was  quite  evident 
that  Countess  Marta  had  arrived! 


It  was  a  beautiful  spring  evening,  though  only 
April,  and  the  ice  in  the  lake  had  not  yet  broken 
up.  Mamselle  Marie  had  opened  her  window  and 
was  sitting  in  her  room,  picking  her  guitar  and 
singing.  She  was  so  absorbed  in  her  music  and  her 
memories  that  she  did  not  notice  that  a  carriage  had 
drawn  up  at  the  door  of  the  cottage.  In  the  car- 
riage sat  Countess  Marta,  who  was  highly  amused 
at  the  sight  of  Mamselle  Marie  seated  at  the  win- 
dow, hugging  her  guitar  and,  with  eyes  turned  heav- 
enward, singing  old,  long-forgotten  love-ditties. 

Presently  the  Countess  got  out  of  her  carriage 
and  went  into  the  cottage,  where  the  girls  sat  as 
usual  at  the  quilting-frame.  She  was  never  haughty: 
the  winds  of  the  Revolution  had  swept  over  her 
and  blown  fresh  air  into  her  lungs. 

It  was  not  her  fault  that  she  was  a  Countess,  she 
used  to  say;  but  at  all  events  she  would  live  the 


290  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

life  that  was  most  pleasing  to  her.  She  had  just  as 
good  a  time  at  peasant  weddings  as  at  court  balls, 
and  when  there  was  no  one  else  at  hand,  she  enter- 
tained her  maids.  She  brought  joy  wherever  she 
appeared,  with  her  pretty  little  face  and  her  exuber- 
ant spirits. 

The  Countess  ordered  quilts  of  Fru  Moreus  and 
complimented  her  daughters;  she  looked  about  the 
rose-garden  and  told  of  her  adventures  on  the  jour- 
ney, for  she  was  always  having  adventures,  and  she 
finally  climbed  the  attic  stairs,  which  were  dread- 
fully steep  and  narrow,  and  sought  out  Mamselle 
Marie  in  her  gable-room.  The  Countess's  dark  eyes 
beamed  on  the  lonely  little  woman,  and  her  mellow 
voice  caressed  her  ear. 

She  gave  her  an  order  for  curtains,  and  declared 
she  could  not  live  at  Borg  without  having  knitted 
curtains  at  all  her  windows,  and  for  every  table  she 
must  have  one  of  Mamselle's  covers. 

Taking  up  the  guitar,  she  sang  to  her  of  love  and 
happiness  and  told  her  stories,  and  the  little  Mam- 
selle was  quite  carried  away  into  the  gay,  festive 
world.  And  the  Countess's  laugh  was  so  musical 
it  set  all  the  little  half-frozen  birds  out  in  the  rose- 
garden  warbling,  and  her  face,  which  was  hardly 
pretty  now,  for  her  complexion  had  been  ruined  by 
cosmetics  and  there  was  a  sensual  expression  about 
her  mouth,  looked  so  beautiful  to  Mamselle  Ma- 
rie, that  she  wondered  how  the  little  looking-glass 


MAMSELLE  MARIE  291 

could  let  it  vanish  once  it  had  been  mirrored  on  its 
shining  surface. 

At  parting,  she  kissed  Mamselle  and  asked  her  to 
come  to  Borg.  Poor  Mamselle  Marie's  heart  was  as 
empty  as  the  swallow's  nest  at  Christmas.  Though 
free,  she  sighed  for  chains  like  a  slave  freed  in  old 
age. 

Again  there  came  for  her  a  time  of  joy  and  a  time 
of  sorrow;  but  it  did  not  last  long — only  one  short 
week. 

Every  day  the  Countess  sent  for  her  and  enter- 
tained her  with  anecdotes  of  her  suitors,  and  Mam- 
selle Marie  laughed  as  she  had  never  laughed  before. 
They  became  the  best  of  friends,  and  the  Countess 
soon  knew  all  about  the  young  organ-builder  and 
about  the  parting. 

At  twilight  she  would  have  Mamselle  sit  in  the 
window-seat  in  the  little  blue  cabinet,  hang  the 
guitar-ribbon  round  her  neck,  and  make  her  sing 
love  songs.  The  Countess  sat  where  she  could  see 
the  old  spinster's  shrunken  figure  and  ugly  little 
head  silhouetted  against  the  red  evening  sky,  and 
she  likened  the  poor  Mamselle  to  a  languishing 
maid  of  the  castle.  Her  songs  were  all  of  tender 
shepherds  and  cruel  shepherdesses,  and  her  voice 
was  the  thinnest  voice  imaginable ;  so  one  can  easily 
understand  that  the  Countess  had  her  little  laugh 
at  the  ludicrousness  of  it  all. 

There  was  a  party  at  Borg,  as  was  natural  when 


292  GOSTA  BERLING'S  SAGA 

the  Count's  mother  had  come  home.  It  was  not  a 
grand  affair,  only  the  parish  folk  being  invited;  but 
every  one  had  a  jolly  time,  as  usual. 

The  dining-hall  was  on  the  lower  floor,  and  after 
supper  the  guests  did  not  go  upstairs  again,  but 
ensconced  themselves  in  the  adjoining  room,  which 
was  Countess  Marta's  living-room.  The  Countess 
picked  up  Mamselle  Marie's  guitar,  and  began  to 
sing  for  the  company. 

She  was  a  merry-maker,  this  Countess,  and  a 
clever  mimic.  Now  she  had  taken  it  into  her  head 
to  mimic  Mamselle  Marie.  Turning  her  eyes  heav- 
enward she  proceeded  to  sing  in  a  thin,  squeaky 
voice. 

"No  no,  no  no,  Countess!"  pleaded  Mamselle 
Marie. 

But  Marta  Dohna  was  having  sport,  and  the 
guests  could  hardly  help  laughing,  though  no  doubt 
they  felt  sorry  for  poor  Mamselle  Marie. 

The  Countess  took  from  a  pot-pourri  jar  a  hand- 
ful of  dried  rose-leaves  and,  with  tragic  gestures, 
went  up  to  Mamselle  Marie,  and  sang  with  mock 
emotion: 

"Thou  'rt  going  far  from  us.  Ah,  come  back  again! 

"T 'is  friendships  voice  that  entreats  thee. 
Be  happy  ^  forget  not  a  true,  loving  heart, 

Which  in  Varmeland^s  valleys  awaits  thee" 


MAMSELLE  MARIE  293 

Then  she  strewed  the  rose-leaves  over  her  head. 
Everybody  laughed  except  Mamselle  Marie,  who 
went  white  with  fury.  She  looked  as  though  she 
could  have  torn  out  the  Countess's  eyes. 

"You  're  a  bad  woman,  Ma'rta  Dohna,"  she  said. 
"No  honest  woman  should  associate  with  you." 

Countess  Ma'rta  was  angry  too. 

"Out  with  you,  Mamselle!"  she  cried.  "I  have 
had  enough  of  your  silliness." 

"I  shall  go,"  answered  Mamselle  Marie,  "but 
first  I  must  be  paid  for  my  covers  and  my  curtains, 
which  you  Ve  put  up  here." 

"The  old  rags!"  exclaimed  the  Countess.  "Do 
you  want  to  be  paid  for  such  rubbish?  Take  them 
away !  I  never  wish  to  see  them  again.  Take  them 
away  with  you  at  once!' 

Whereupon  the  Countess  tore  down  the  cur- 
tains and  threw  them,  with  the  table-covers,  at 
Mamselle  Marie. 

The  next  day  young  Countess  Elizabeth  begged 
her  mother-in-law  to  make  her  peace  with  poor 
Mamselle ;  but  she  would  not,  for  she  was  weary  of 
her. 

The  young  Countess  then  bought  of  Mamselle 
Marie  the  whole  set  of  curtains  and  put  them  up 
at  all  the  windows  in  the  upper  story,  and  Mam- 
selle felt  herself  fully  redressed. 

Countess  Ma'rta  chaffed  her  daughter-in-law  a 


294  COST  A  BERLING'S  SAGA 

good  deal  about  her  fondness  for  knitted  curtains. 
She  could  also  mask  her  anger — keep  it  smoulder- 
ing for  years.  A  very  clever  person  was  this  Count- 
ess Marta  Dohna. 


END  OF  VOLUME  I 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS-URBANA 


30112071779885 


